Better Angels
by lmk05
Summary: When James Potter rescues his rival from a slavery, he doesn't understand the responsibility he is taking on. Can a confused and resentful fifth year overcome his old animosity to help his former rival? Can an abused Snape accept his new role?
1. Chapter 1

"When again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature."  
- Abraham Lincoln, First Inaugural address 

---

James had never been to Malfoy Manor, though he and Sirius joked that all manner of baby-eating and banshee-breeding rituals went on there. So far, he hadn't seen anything to say otherwise. Even the house elf leading him through the narrow corridors was strange. Instead of chatting enthusiastically, this one scampered just out of range of James' foot, ears hanging limply around his head, and remaining silent in the dark passage.

It was three in the afternoon, and James felt like he was creeping down to the dungeons at midnight for a raw baby-steak.

The elf finally backed up against a towering oak door, looking at James with wide eyes and trembling ears. "Dobby not go any farther, Master Potter. Master Potter must go in by hisself. Dobby will be waiting for Master when Master comes out."

James eyed the door, unsure why the ornate carvings made him think of writhing snakes. "I just go in?"

"Master Potter is expected. Dobby will be here for Master when he returns."

"Yeah, thank you." James pushed open the door, feeling the elf's eyes watching until the door whispered shut behind him.

The first thing he saw was Snape, kneeling not quite in the center of the room, face twisted away from the fire. There was an odd flatness to his skin, but that was probably just the oily dimness that permeated the whole manor.

"Good afternoon, James."

James turned towards the voice. Lucius Malfoy stood by the fire at his father's right hand. Typical.

"Hello, Mr. Malfoy. Hello, Lucius." He gave his best skree-dung eating smile. "Are you ready to begin?"

Calligulus Malfoy, to his son's obvious annoyance, took the lead. "I trust you brought your end of the bargain?"

James shrugged, then carelessly tossed the silver ring in the general direction of the Malfoys. Lucius darted forward as if to catch it, but his father drew his wand and summoned it out of the air with a casual Accio.

The elder Malfoy examined the ring, squinting and putting on a glass monocle which made him look like a lopsided cyclops. James waited while he verified the physical etchings and the magical signature of the ring. "This ring was brought with the knowledge and approval of your father?"

"Yes." James nodded. "My father approved the trade." Once the owl had found him, anyway.

"I'm surprised. You are aware that this ring is the token my father gave your grandfather to stand for the life debt he owed? Do you understand that this ring will end the debt between our families?"

"Yes, he explained it to me. Shall we get on with the ritual now?"

"Of course." Malfoy tilted his head to one side, "Though I am curious as to why you would...spend such a debt on an ugly slave."

James glanced over at Snape, who didn't seem to have heard, even. "The ritual, now?"

The elder Malfoy nodded at his son, who slid to the center of the room. "Your hand, slave." Snape didn't move, except to drag his hand away from where it was clenched against his thigh and offer it to his master. He didn't even flinch when Lucius drew a copper knife from his belt and sliced it across his open palm. The blood welled up, and Lucius wiped his blade in it, then held it against Snape's palm.

"I, Lucius Malfoy, hereby relinquish ownership of this slave and offer his body, mind and soul to be the property of James Harold Potter henceforth."

James stepped forward, drawing his own blade. He looked down at Snape kneeling on the red carpet, refusing to look up. He looked over at Malfoy, who was obviously enjoying the sight.

He almost threw the knife to the floor and ran. He didn't like the quiver in his belly that could be either pleasure or disgust, he didn't like the possibility that he could be feeling the same thing as Lucius Malfoy, ever. He didn't like it, but leaving Snape here would be just as cruel.

"Snape, give me your hand." He tried to keep his voice even, but Snape didn't react one way or another. He just lifted up his hand. James tried to keep the cut shallow, but he didn't have much experience in deliberately mutilating helpless people. When he thought he'd gotten enough blood on the blade, he declared in a shaky voice, "I, James Harold Potter, accept the body, mind and soul of this slave to be my property henceforth. The debt between my house and the house of Lucius Malfoy is finished at the completion of this bargain."

He nodded at Lucius, who had an expectant sneer on his lips. They pulled their blades away from Snape's hands at the same time.

For a moment nothing happened. Then the open gashes flashed green and Snape fell to the carpet, writhing and choking on a scream. James jumped back in horror. Lucius' smirk grew into an amused grin.

Finally, Snape lay still, panting on his side. Blood was smeared across his hands and chest.

"I suggest you remove your slave before he ruins our carpet," Lucius said, the sick grin still playing on his face. "It is worth far more than your new slave."

James bit back the fuck you and instead said quietly, "Snape, get up and get dressed so that we can leave." He sheathed his knife and slid his hand back to his wand. Even so, he jumped when one of the Malfoys cleared his throat.

"Ah, Mr. Potter," the Elder Malfoy intoned, "I'm afraid the slave doesn't have any clothes. As I recall, a wardrobe was not part of the bargain."

Arseholes. James glared at the pair of tow-headed bastards. He finally looked away when Snape made it to his feet, hand clenched against his chest to keep in the blood.

"Follow me, Snape."

He heard Snape stumble behind him, so he stopped as soon as the oak doors had closed. Dobby stopped as well, his ears trembling as he watched Snape sway on his feet. James couldn't tell what was making him so dizzy, but it didn't look like he'd make it through the floo as bad off as he was now. James asked Dobby, "Do you have any bandages? Maybe somePepperup potion?"

Dobby's gaze jumped between James and Snape. "Dobby get bandages for good Master Potter. Dobby get a better potion for Severus Snape if Master James Potter will allow?"

"Just hurry up, will you?" He didn't think Snape would keep on his feet much longer, and he really didn't want to have to deal with carrying Snivellus—Snape—all the way back to the dorms.

Dobby did hurry; he was back in less than a minute. James poured the potion into Snape's mouth while Dobby wrapped up his hands. In a moment, Snape blinked and settled steadily on his heels.

"All right ," James ordered, "Put out your arms."

Still blinking, Snape lifted his arms out in front of him. They looked like long, white twigs fallen from the whomping willow. James stripped off his own robe and helped Snape into it, not wanting to see any more of the pale, skinny body than he already had.

He supposed he was relieved that saving someone didn't mean he had to like them.

Once Snape didn't look about to collapse anymore, he turned to the elf, who did look like he was about to keel over.

"Dobby, can you take us back to the floo?"


	2. Chapter 2

The Headmaster's fireplace belched Snape out violently, propelling him into Potter's back, the momentum knocking them both towards the floor. Potter twisted and somehow managed to land half on top of Snape, who screamed as his mangled back slammed into the carpet. When the haze of pain faded enough, Snape looked up to find his master standing and staring down at him, face red and swelling where he must have hit his head on the desk. "What were you doing, Snape? Trying to kill me?"

Snape panted, trying to find the correct words, trying to remember which way was up so he could get to his knees and accept his punishment properly. Disrespect doubled a punishment, and this one was going to be bad enough. But all he could manage was to roll on his side and lie here, blinded with agony even the Pain-Quick couldn't suppress.

"Please," he found himself whimpering. "Master, please, I apologize—"

"Shut up, Snape." Potter cut him off. Snape tried to hide his face and braced for the expected beating.

Nothing happened for a long while. At last, a pair of hands landed on his shoulders. He cried out, flinching back.

"Hush, Mr. Snape, drink this," said a deep female voice he recognized as Madam Pomfrey's. A cold vial was pressed to his lips. Instinctively, Snape sniffed it, scenting myrtle and foxglove. Then he shook his head. "Can't," he whispered, when he had enough breath to speak. "Already..." His eyes trailed over to his master, who was leaning against the Headmaster's desk, listening. He was in for it now. He'd taken an analgesic potion without his master's permission or even knowledge. Potter was standing stone-faced, showing no intention of waiving away Madam Pomfrey's offer of Pain-Ease like any normal master should. "I took an analgesic potion," he admitted, watching Potter's face. "It had foxglove, it's still active, I can't—"

"Yes, I'm aware of what an overdose of foxglove can do, Mr. Snape. When did you take this potion?"

Potter answered for him, "Just a few minutes ago, I think. A House Elf gave him something. Should it have worn off this fast?"

Pomfrey glanced back at Snape, as if looking for confirmation from him. As if he would dare contradict his master in public. "It hasn't worn off, Mr. Potter. But it can only suppress so much pain. No doubt it's the only reason Mr. Snape is not unconscious right now."

Damn Dobby to the darkest pits of Hades; there was nothing Snape would like more than to be unconscious at the moment, no matter what the consequences were later. He flinched when he sensed a hand coming at his face, but it was only Madam Pomfrey, brushing his long hair over his shoulder. It would have felt good if everything else didn't hurt so much.

Potter was getting redder, shifting against the Headmaster's desk. Snape saw him glance at someone standing out of his range of vision, probably Dumbledore. "Should he be like this, sir? The ritual wasn't that—I mean, it didn't, well, it didn't seem like it would hurt him like this."

Dumbledore answered, "No, I suspect he has some other injuries unrelated to the ritual."

"But I saw him. Naked, I mean, and he was fine."

Madam Pomfrey's voice broke in. "Perhaps we could discuss this in the hospital wing, gentlemen?"

Potter must have agreed, because he was soon levitating above the carpet, still curled on his side, as someone propelled him through the corridors towards the hospital wing. Once the pressure was off his back, the pain began to fade into a throbbing, overall ache that was nonetheless infinitely more bearable than the sharp agony of a few moments before. The potion was working.

Once in the hospital wing, Madam Pomfrey let him hover a few inches above the bed. "I'll have the Headmaster let you down as soon as we get your clothes off," she promised, as she unbuttoned Potter's robe. Her fingers paused as they passed the Gryffindor crest, and she glanced back at Potter, dressed in only trousers and a jumper.

"The robes weren't part of the bargain, apparently," Potter explained darkly from some unseen corner. Snape had the feeling he was going to be paying for that inconvenience soon enough.

Madam Pomfrey finished unbuttoning him as the Headmaster soothed, "We have a few spare robes we can lend you. It shan't be—"

His voice froze as Madam Pomfrey let the robe drop off his shoulders. Snape knew it had to look bad; Master—Lucius wouldn't have been satisfied with less. But he hadn't expected the ringing silence of the infirmary. Hadn't they ever seen a beaten slave before?

Finally, Potter broke the stillness.

"Fuck."

"Language, Mr. Potter," Madam Pomfrey rebuked automatically, and resumed disrobing Snape. After giving him a quick examination, she motioned to the Headmaster, who gently rotated him onto his stomach and lowered him to the bed. She tucked his hair over his ear again before turning to P—Master.

"I'll need call a colleague from St. Mungos to help heal him with as little scarring as possible. You'll have to pay the costs out of pocket, as the WHS doesn't cover slaves." She glowered darkly for a moment, awaiting an answer.

Potter froze, jaw working soundlessly. He looked stunned. Finally, he said, "Yeah, of course, do whatever you want."

Snape hadn't expected such an open-ended statement. Perhaps Potter was newer to dealing with slaves than he had thought.

"What...I mean, his back was fine just a moment ago, and now it looks like..." Potter trailed off. Snape was glad. He knew what his back felt like; he didn't need to know what it looked like too.

"Glamour," Snape rasped in answer. "Transfer spell stripped it off."

Madam Pomfrey said, "Treatment may be costly. Do you need to owl your father?"

"He's in Bolivia right now. I'll let him know, but it will take awhile. He isn't—he won't mind."

Strange. Lucius wouldn't have moved an inch without his father's written and triplicated approval.

"Very well. I'll let you know when the treatment is finished." It was a clear dismissal, but predictably his new master showed no sign of moving. He stood on the other side of the infirmary staring at Snape.

"Come along, James," the Headmaster smoothly stepped in. "There are some matters I would like to discuss with you in my office. It will take only a moment."

Snape knew nothing ever took just a moment with the Headmaster, but he was glad to have Potter and Dumbledore gone, leaving him alone with Madam Pomfrey. He never understood why, but she had always been careful with him, sometimes bending the rules to help him just as Dobby would, and Rangly had.

"All right, Severus," Madam Pomfrey said, returning from the stores shelf with a thin blue vial in one hand and a glass of pumpkin juice in the other. "Turn over on your side and drink this."

Instinctively, he sniffed the bottle. No foxglove, but a sweet, flowery smell he couldn't quite place.

"Stop that, Severus, I'm hardly going to poison you. It's a methysticum-base with a chamomile infusion. It's the only thing that won't react with the foxglove or the myrtle and will still keep you insensate during the treatment—"

Snape was already shaking his head. "P—my master won't accept that."

Madam Pomfrey pressed the glass against his lips. "You'll take what I give you in my infirmary Mr. Potter authorized me to do 'whatever I want' with you, and I shall. I don't allow my patients to suffer needlessly."

"He'll see on the bill—"

"It won't matter. James is not Lucius Malfoy. Drink the potion."

Snape pursed his lips and shook his head. He'd rather take the pain right now than suffer whatever Potter dreamed up as punishment later.

"I won't treat you unless you do. I will call Mr. Potter down here to order you to drink it if I have to."

Snape winced. He would be punished almost as severely should that happen. He glared at Madam Pomfrey, angry and not sure why she had betrayed him this way. Finally, he nodded, opening his mouth for the potion. Madam Pomfrey let him wash out the bitter taste with the pumpkin juice. He had just enough time to finish the glass before his eyes drifted shut.

---

Madam Pomfrey's potion was ancient and Eastern, designed to put the drinker into a nearly unbreakable trance, during which they could relive a memory with almost pensieve-like clarity while remaining entirely insensible to the outside world. Snape felt it seeping into his mind, his memory, and pulling him in as well. He felt a memory begin to coalesce around him, and pulled back as he recognized it. He might have preferred the pain of treatment to reliving this afternoon again, but it was no longer his choice. His skin prickled as a chilly springtime breeze drifted across the Hogwarts field in his mind.

_The Defense O.W.L. had been harder than he had expected. Snape poured over his answers in his mind, trying to find their faults, trying to guess how they would be graded. He had to do well, to prove to Lucius and Calligulus that he was worth schooling. He would not give them a reason to take him away from Hogwarts and make him worthless as only an ugly bed-slave could be. He shuddered, and went back to listing the characteristics of Patronus in his head. _

_He did not notice the jeers from Potter and his friends. He continued to puzzle over the identifiers of a werewolf until they were nearly upon him. His wand jerked into his hand, but it was too late. "Expeliramus!" One of them shouted, and Snape's wand was yanked from his hand. He panicked, twisting, trying to get it back. If he lost his wand, he would lose Hogwarts, lose his freedom and his education. He dove in the direction it had gone. _

_"Impedimentia!" _

_The curse hit him mid-dive and he crashed into the grass, scraping his cheek on a stone. He struggled, but couldn't move. He panted, fury and terror taking control. He was helpless, wandless, with no one to defend him. He could feel Black and Potter advancing on him. _

_The dream-memory was fuzzy here. He couldn't remember what they taunted him with, or what he said in response. All he could remember was the fear and anger as he struggled against his invisible bonds. He remembered screaming and swearing and cursing in a desperate rage, and he remembered the look of delight on Potter's face as his mouth filled with soap and bubbles. _

_He wanted to scream again. But his dream-self choked on the bubbles. _

_He felt someone step out of the crowd and he increased his struggles. _

_"Leave him alone!" the interloper shouted, and he recognized the voice. Lily Evans. His face burned. The only person in the school who would defend him was a pixie-loving mudblood who simply hated Potter more than she hated him. He fought the jinx and felt the bonds begin to crack. While Potter and Black were distracted, he crawled towards his wand, coughing up soapsuds into the grass. _

_His fingers curled around his the handle of his wand just as he felt Black's eyes fall upon him. He jerked around, hissing an almost silent Sectumsempra. He had the pleasure of seeing the bastard's cheek split open, spilling blood all over his robes before his body was tossed into the air, dangled there until his pants were showing and thrown back to the ground. He struggled to his feet, reaching for his wand, the Cruciatus on the tip of his tongue. He would have screamed it out in triumph and rage if he could have opened his mouth. Instead, he fell, petrified into the grass. _

_A few seconds later, Potter released him. He was too angry to question why until Potter announced patronizingly, "You're lucky Evans was here, Snivellus," with that smooth, cocky grin back on his bleeding face. _

_He screamed something about Evans and mudbloods. He never really knew what, but he saw Lily's expression freeze, and heard her hiss something about his underpants, Snivellus. _

_It hurt. He didn't know why, but it did. He stood still long enough for Black to train his wand on him, hatred and glee dancing in his eyes. Snape let his own wand fall into the grass, both to protect it and because he didn't have the strength to lift it anymore. He couldn't fight them. Already, he was going to be punished for hurting Potter—a physical assault on a free person was never permitted, even though no one else at the school knew about his enslavement. Lucius would hear about it, and would punish him. He wanted to curl up, but forced himself to stay standing. _

_A flash of light made him blink, and again he was hovering in the air. _

_"Who wants to see me take off Snivelly's pants?" _

_Fear spiked behind his chest and he began to struggle again. He couldn't let them see... "Stop it," He yelled. "You can't, you fucking bastards!" _

_Potter laughed. "What's wrong, Snivelly? Do you have something to hide?" _

_"Oh," joined in Black. "Maybe his afraid is greasy little dicky is too small," _

_Potter leered at him. "Or maybe he doesn't have one at all." _

_"I always thought he had a girlish figure," Black smirked. "Is that it, Snivelly? Is that why you follow us around all the time? Are you really just in loooove?" He laughed an ugly, cruel laugh. _

_Snape hissed, struggling, sweating. He couldn't let them see, if they saw, they would know, and he would not be allowed to stay here, he would be taken back to the manor to be nothing but a mindless fuck-slave again. "Stop it!" he yelled again, but his voice broke and Potter grinned. _

_"Oi, mate, I think you hit a nerve there. Listen, he can't even talk like a man." He turned to Snape. "You really want some, don't you?" _

_"No," Snape shouted, unable to stop himself. Merlin, if Potter took him... _

_Black struck a shocked pose. "Thy lady doth protest too much, I believe." _

_"Black," he hissed, promising unspeakable retribution. _

_Potter ignored him, bending over with laughter. "Oh, Snivellus, is that what it's been all this time? You should have told us, we would have helped you." He raised his wand, and Snape felt a tug on his pants. _

_"I'll kill you!" Snape screamed, but he already felt the ragged cloth jerk down to his ankles. He heard the crowed roar with laughter and then fall silent. He could feel their eyes drawn to the Malfoy crest branded into his left buttock. It was the only physical representation of the Malfoy's ownership of him, but for the purebloods in the crowd it was unmistakable. He heard the gasps and the whispers begin, and closed his eyes against the burning that began there. _

_They knew. All of them, the whole school. It would be only a matter of hours before someone came to collect him, now. The Malfoys would never allow him to remain at Hogwarts, now that it was known that he was a slave. The plan that had been put in motion by the time he was a year old was ruined and he was now next to useless. _

_He felt himself go limp, barely noticing as his body was carefully lowered into the grass. His robes fell over him to cover the mark, but it was too late. _

_If only he could dive into the lake and never surface again. _

_He felt a shadow fall over him and he looked up, cringing. It was Potter, his face white and wand hand shaking. "Is it true, Snape?" he asked, voice strangely hesitant and unsure. Potter made a move to touch him, but Snape rolled away, burying his face in the dirt. _

The vision ended abruptly, and Snape opened his eyes, gasping, tasting the mix of soap and dirt in his mouth. After a moment, he tasted the counter-potion on his lips. Madam Pomfrey leaned over him, wiping his brow with a warm flannel.

"How are you feeling, Mr. Snape?"

Snape swallowed, his throat slightly dry. He shifted a little, expecting to feel a flash of agony from his back, but all he got was a lingering stiffness. The rest of his body was sore as well, probably from the spell, but overall he felt far better than he had since before O.W.L.s. "Very well, Madam Pomfrey." He licked his dry lips.

"Here," she pressed a glass of cool water into his hands. When he had finished it, she pressed another phial into his hand. "It's just dreamless sleep. And before you start, it's from my own stores. James will never know unless you tell him."

He stared at her, surprised. "Drink it," she urged, gently wiping the dried sweat off his face with another warm flannel. He did, lowering his head back into the soft hospital pillow and letting his eyes drift shut.


	3. Chapter 3

"If you want to know what a man's like, take a good look at how he treats his inferiors, not his equals."  
- J.K. Rowling, _Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire_ (Sirius Black)

---

Severus woke to find sunlight spilling through the high windows onto his bed. He was on his back, which was surprising in that it didn't hurt at all. He stretched, sensing a lingering stiffness in some of the formerly torn muscles, but for the most part, his body felt relaxed and healthy.

He heard a chime go off somewhere, and Madam Pomfrey bustled out of her office.

"Good morning, Mr. Snape, how are you feeling?" she asked, fussing with his pillow.

"I'm fine," he replied. Then, noticing the angle of the sun through the high windows, he frowned and asked, "What time is it?"

"Eleven O'Clock, about. I'll have lunch brought up for you a little early, though." She ran her wand over him, nodding at the results. "Is there anything in particular you would like?"

Eleven—had he slept through the whole night and morning? Potter would be furious. "Madam Pomfrey, I need to leave. My master will be upset if I do not—"

"Fall down the stairs the moment you step out this door?" Pomfrey cut in, sharply. "I'll let you go after dinner—if the potions have worn off by then, mind you—but not before. Mr. Potter has lived this long without you, I'm sure he'll manage for awhile longer."

"But he's my master. I'll be expected to attend him," he argued, trying to make her understand. He couldn't handle anymore punishments so soon. He began pushing himself up, surprised at the sudden dizziness in his head. "I need to go..."

"No, you need to lie back and let your body finish processing the apothecary Healer Wyatt and I just finished administering to you. James will wait."

"He won't. He'll be angry." Snape felt his throat tighten.

"Severus..." She trailed off clearly wanting to say something she couldn't find the proper words for. "I'll speak to James. You'll need to remain here for treatment, anyhow. The scars are still healing, and we're still trying to reduce the damage as much as possible."

Reduce the... Snape felt as if he'd been thrown into the lake in February. Damage, of course, there would be damage after what Lucius had done. He shivered. "How bad will it be, then?" he asked, not really wanting to know.

She sighed, rearranging a series of glass vials. "You'll have scars, there will be no getting around that." She stopped, and turned to face him. "But most likely they will be very faint. If the healing goes as expected, you will have to look closely to see them at all. I don't think they should decrease your... value, by much."

Snape nodded, turning away. There was no point in telling her that she was wrong. A scarred slave was a scarred slave; at the moment, he was worth almost nothing. If he graduated from Hogwarts and became a Master of Potions, then he would have real value, but at the moment, nothing Potter could do to him would make him worth less. His only form of protection was gone.

He would have curled up, but he was afraid it would aggravate the scars. He stayed there, brooding too much to enjoy the rare feeling of a bed and a blanket in a relatively safe place. He ate a little lunch and, later, dinner, just to keep Madam Pomfrey from glaring at him. Otherwise, he pretended to sleep.

Once he had finished his dinner, Madam Pomfrey made him get up and take off his hospital robes. She ran her wand, then her hand down his back.

"See," she said, conjuring a mirror. "They're hardly visible at all, anymore."

The scars were long and winding, slightly pink. Madam Pomfrey assured him that would fade to an untannable white that would go almost unnoticed on his sallow skin. But he was still scarred.

Potter was going to kill him. Or make him wish he had.

Madam Pomfrey laid out some older Hogwarts robes—Gryffindor, now—and he put them on. He was about to head out the door into the hallway when he felt a brief touch to his shoulder. He looked up at Madam Pomfrey.

"Severus...James isn't like your former master." Snape raised a skeptical eyebrow. Madam Pomfrey sighed and ran her thumb across his forehead. "Please, try not to worry so much, you've only ever seen him at his worst." Snape said nothing. He liked and needed Madam Pomfrey too much to speak the bitter rejoinders in his mind. He didn't doubt that he brought out the worst in Potter; nor did he doubt that, granted absolute power, Potter's worst would become entirely unbearable.

But Madam Pomfrey had released him, and he had nowhere to go but Gryffindor Tower.

---

He didn't have the password, but he was only outside for a few minutes before he heard footsteps behind him.

"Hello, Severus." The voice was soft, uncertain, but unmistakable.

He spun around, hand reaching into his wand pocket, to face the sharp faced, brown haired boy. "Lupin," he hissed, instinctively bracing for a fight, even though it had rarely been Lupin who attacked him. He felt a moment of panic when he couldn't find his wand before he realized that he didn't have it anymore and that he was a slave to this boy's friend. The panic blossomed into controlled terror, which he kept out of his face with the practice of his short lifetime. He dropped his hands to his sides and said to the ground, "Hello, sir."

"Sir? I'm not a professor. Or your master, for that matter." He couldn't see Lupin's expression, but his worn boots shuffled under his robes. "Are you looking for James?"

He glanced up, surprised and a little disarmed by the tone. Then he realized Potter and Black were nowhere to be seen; Lupin was usually safe as long as he wasn't with his friends. He relaxed a little. "Yes, I am. Madam Pomfrey just let me go."

"Well, he's down in the library with Sirius. I can show you around the tower now, if you want."

Ah, so that was what this was about. Lupin wanted to sample his friend's new acquisition, perhaps without Potter knowing. Potter would want the first taste, wouldn't he? Except, Snape wasn't anything like a virgin, and it might be that Gryffindor boys were more communal than the Slytherins. He just didn't know.

"Is that—will that be acceptable to my master?" It was harder to say those words, acknowledge his inferior position, while looking into the eyes of his once-enemy. He would have to get used to it; he would soon be saying them regularly to Potter.

Lupin bit his lip, then shrugged. "I don't think it will matter to him. He's busy with Sirius. They're researching...something."

Snape gave a short nod and followed the other boy through the portrait. The common room was warm and red, with Gryffindors lounging in great worn armchairs or playing chess or talking by the fire. It reminded him of scenes he had witnessed like this in the Slytherin common room. As if to remind him that such scenes weren't for him, the friendly din froze into silence. He felt the cold stares on him and wanted nothing more than to get up to the dorm and let Lupin get on with it, hopefully in private.

Lupin looked around the room, then at him. Disgustingly placid air aside, he seemed to sense the mutual hostility. "Why don't we do introductions later, after you've, ah, settled in?" Without looking for Snape's acknowledgment, he led the way up a long, curved staircase. Behind the door he stopped at was a round room, with a semi-circle of beds. He counted five, each with a window to the left of the head. Interesting. In Slytherin, students slept three to a room, and each room led to a smaller, year-specific common room. When Lucius was still in school, Snape had normally slept in the seventh year common room. He'd preferred that, as it afforded him some measure of privacy when the other boys were sleeping, and it allowed him to keep a light going for his studies when he needed it. He wondered how he would handle not having even that respite from Potter and his gang.

His attention returned to Lupin when the boy gestured at the bed at the end of the semi-circle, closest to the door. "I would guess that's yours. It wasn't here when we left this morning. The elves must have brought it up. "He looked expectantly at Snape, who suppressed a sigh and went over and sat on the bed. In Slytherin, he would already be naked, spread out on his belly, waiting, but this was not Slytherin and he hated the idea of pillow-biting for these Gryffindors.

He stared at the wall behind Lupin, not wanting to meet the other boy's eyes but wanting to see how much he could get away with. Nothing happened. Lupin was muggle-born, sort of, so perhaps that made sense. He could feel the weight of the eyes on him, could feel Lupin working up the nerve to do something, most likely to break in his friend's new toy.

His nerve must have failed him, because he merely shrugged and turned toward the door. "I'll just let you get settled in, then...James should be back soon." He paused awkwardly by the door before walking out and shutting it behind him.

Snape bristled a little at the implied threat in the last words, but was too confused by the sudden reprieve for it to weigh on his mind. Anyway, what did Lupin mean, "Settle in"? It wasn't as if he had any belongings, and the simple round room wasn't difficult to figure out. He got up and paced across the floor a bit, enjoying the warm, soft carpet spread out across the center of the room. This wouldn't be bad to sleep on, certainly better than the cold stone of the Slytherin common room. He stared longingly back at the bed, but doubted he was allowed on it except when ordered. The extra bed did make sense—no use leaving wet spots on the other boys' sheets. The thought came entirely without irony, a simple practical observation, until he realized what he had been thinking, and squeezed his jaw shut as if it was his mouth that was responsible for the poisonous direction his thoughts were taking.

Finally, tired of pacing, he slid down to the carpet, drawing his knees up to his chest and resting his pointed jaw between them. He closed his eyes and lost himself in thought.

---

"I cannot believe you, Prongs." Sirius was leaning against a stack in that elegant way that drove Elena Bramshuckle wild, his eyebrow arched elegantly and incredulously.

James said nothing, but threw a crumpled up parchment at his friend's head, enjoying the satisfying thwack it made against Sirius' exceptionally hard skull. Sirius had been sniping at him since he had told him of his plan to take Snape away from the Malfoy's at the beginning of school, but since Snape had arrived it had taken on a sullen, resigned tone.

"Slave or not, he's still Snivellus, and now you've got him sleeping in our dorms without so much as a by-your-leave." He dropped another heavy bound volume on the library table. James winced, grateful for the silencing charm and the slight but complex glamour they had mastered a few months ago. James had received enough detention as a result of Sirius' abusive habits towards the library books that he now simply cast the glamour on whatever table they were working on. James briefly wondered whether or not he could order Snape to serve his detentions for him now, then shook that thought off.

"What else am I supposed to do with him? I can't just have him go sleep in the snow."

Sirius flipped silently through the pages of the book before drawing an elegant finger down the corner of the pages. "I say, stuff him in the Shrieking Shack and save the lot of us the trouble."

"He's not that stupid. He'd figure it out, you know."

"You don't think he's going to figure it out sleeping in the dormitories with us?"

James stopped breathing for a moment. "Merlin, I didn't even think of that. Sirius—"

"—come pull my ignorant arse out of the hole I've dug it into?" Sirius smirked, then shrugged. "There should be a geas that will prevent him from giving out information he knows to be secret. Here, have a look." He slid another heavy tome over to James' side of the desk.

James glanced down at the page, which confirmed what Sirius had said. The geas also kept him from harming his master or himself, and would drop him into a coma similar to that caused by the Draught of Living Death if he was out of his master's presence for more than a month, but those were the only restrictions it placed on a slave. It was up to the master to enforce obedience, and James winced as he looked over the methods suggested by the books, which included everything from a gagging to castration. The book must have been written before Imperius. James hoped.

"Some pretty sick stuff, huh?" Sirius had come to read over his shoulder. "Snape was probably lucky; Malfoy wouldn't have the stomach for most of this. Now, if he was with my family..."

But James was still staring at the page, fingers crushing the edge of the book. Slowly, he turned to the front cover of the book. Books from the restricted section had no check-out list on their cover, as students weren't allowed to even look at them without permission. But this book did, and the calligraphic script that graced the cover read Lucius Malfoy, 25 September, 1970.

Sirius shoved the book away with one hand, as if it were covered in something slimy and disgusting.

The image of Snape's flayed back came back with sudden clarity: every straight, clean, blood-black line of skin that simply wasn't there, the way they were so even that the skin seemed as if it must have been peeled away along the edge of a ruler. James closed his throat to the burning that crawled up from his stomach.

"Well, if anyone deserves it, it's Snape." Sirius voice was toneless. James looked up, to find his friend's face wearing an almost dismissive expression, though Sirius' eyes would not settle on those aweful pictures. James understood. He wanted to believe that Snape had deserved whatever had happened to him, but he also didn't want to believe that anyone could deserve the marks Snape had worn yesterday.

"Sirius..." He opened his mouth to tell his friend what he had seen the night before, but found the language of adolescent males insufficient to describe a wholly adult horror. So he finished with, "Leave off him for awhile, will you."

Sirius huffed. "Why? He can't hide behind Malfoy anymore, so why should we? It's not like he won't deserve it." His expression had finally come back to the well-worn Snivellus sneer, but this time, James couldn't look at it without feeling a little sick. Was that how Malfoy had looked at Snape before he'd cut into him?

"He never hid behind Malfoy." James stared at the book, careful not to look at the illustrations. "And now he's mine, so just leave off."

Sirius was silent for a moment, but James just kept watching his finger trace the edge of the book. Finally, he could hear Sirius shrug. "Fine, if it's that important to you." He gestured to the small stack of books, all dealing with slavery and slave bonds, the debate over for now. "You want me to help you smuggle these out?"

James shook his head. He didn't want anything of Lucius Malfoy's in his dorm, and he also didn't want Snape to realize that he was ignorant of nearly everything concerning slavery, other than its existence. "Help me put them away?" He and Sirius made short work of precisely replacing the books, so that Madam Pince would never know the difference. During their years of Animangus study, sneaking in and out of the restricted section, as well as nicking its books, had become less of a risky thrill and more of a casually dangerous habit, like riding the Knight Bus.

When they were done, they realized it was already after dinner. Sirius offered to go down to the kitchens and get food, valiantly leaving his friend to face the common room on his own. James muttered a sarcastic thanks and moved off to go face his house.


	4. Chapter 4

Translations:  
moenia, moenium—the walls or fortifications of a city. (Latin)

* * *

The rumor mill that was the Gryffindor common room never failed to be absolutely stunning. James had learned this long ago, but was reminded of the fact when a second year boy greeted him with, "Lupin's got himself a slave and it's Snape can you believe it isn't it great?"

James shook his head, clearing his throat. He'd barely climbed through the portrait hole, but he could see the knot of Gryffindors huddling around the worn leather armchair that was Moony's second bed. He noticed that they were also gathered in a perfect semi-circle, as if someone had raised a defensive Moenium spell around himself. The crowd parted long enough for him to spot a long-suffering Remus glaring in his direction.

He cleared his throat again. A few heads looked up. "Er...Snape's not Remus's slave." More heads looked up. Lupin looked relieved. "He's, er..." He was tempted to say, Sirius Black's, but there would be no stopping that rumor. "Well," he said finally, "he's mine."

The room went quiet, then a buzz broke out. The inevitable questions were thrown out of the former Lupin gaggle. Everyone wanted to know the whys and hows and whether or not they could borrow Snape for their potions homework.

He sat down and answered as much as he could, both annoyed and pleased with the attention. At first he was deliberately vague as to why and how he'd gotten hold of Snape, but then he realized that the girls thought it romantic to save his helpless, embittered worst enemy from a life of torment at the hands of another Slytherin.

The dramatic tale evolved, finally concluding with, "...so, you see, at that moment I realized that, even though we had struggled against each other, battling for supremacy, for five long years, I could no more leave him to the mercy of Lucius Malfoy than I could my own mother. I was bound by a code of honor." James heard gagging noises to his left and turned to see Lupin apparently choking on a peanut. He winked and Moony rolled his eyes, making a show of hiding behind his book.

Story finished, he sat back to look over his gaggle. The girls were looking dreamy-eyed and the boys had puffed up at the word honor. Still, he didn't see the one face he truly wanted to see.

Never mind, she would hear about it soon enough. Meanwhile, he tried to steer Dora Trelawny away from the perception that he and Snape would gradually lose sight of their differences and become loyal, inseparable, desperately in love best friends who would then sacrifice themselves for each other after a long and heroic quest. The thought of being close to Snape, let alone inseparable, was enough to make his skin shiver and his head itch as if it hadn't been washed in weeks.

At last he extricated himself, explaining gravely that he had to look in on his poor slave, lest the unfortunate creature be frightened by his new circumstances. Sympathetic looks followed from the gaggle of ladies (and three lads), and disgusted frowns from those on the fringes who were listening in but trying to pretend they weren't.

Finally, he managed to make it up the stairs and into the dormitory.

---

Snape woke when he heard footsteps creaking on the stairs. For a moment, he was back at Malfoy Manor, curled in the guestroom's closet, praying his master hadn't thought to use a tracking charm.

Then he opened his eyes and saw the round, wood paneled room with its five curtained beds. Even more frightened now, he crawled away from the wall and into the center of the room, wincing as the blood flowed back into his numb legs and tingled mercilessly. He settled on his heels, hands behind his back, and bowed his head in time to hear the door creak open. At least the position held off the tingling in his legs.

"Snape? Where—oh." Potter's eyes fell on him. "What are you doing?"

He felt his back stiffen and his face heat. "I am greeting you, Master," he explained, "as one of my station is expected to do."

"Station. You mean slave." Potter's voice was toneless, but his lips curled and Snape's belly tightened.

He kept his voice equally dead. "Yes, Master."

"I don't remember you calling Malfoy 'Master'."

"I wouldn't have, in public. He preferred to keep the knowledge of my station quiet outside of certain circles. Keeping a slave in a public school is considered bad form—unless he is attending his owner, of course." He added the last part on, still hoping Potter wouldn't consider pulling him out of Hogwarts before he had completed his education. At least he and Potter were in the same year.

Potter surprised him by shrugging and leaning against a bed post. "Why? I thought an educated slave was worth more. And anyway, get off the floor. You look ridiculous."

"Yes, Master." Snape struggled to his feet, numb legs awkward and throbbing. "Sorry, Master." He held off answering until he had braced himself against a bed post, hoping that his new master would care more about getting information than punishing his new acquisition for the breach in decorum. "An educated slave is worth more, but most slaves are educated in their master's home, and the curriculum is focused on the master's desired skill. The training is...extreme, and most finish their training by the time they are fourteen." Whether they had completed their mastery or not. "However, the Malfoy household desired a broader range of skills from me, as well as the...benefits that were available with a slave in Hogwarts." He was deliberately vague, hoping Potter wouldn't press him for details, but would come to see keeping his slave here as an advantage.

The room was quiet for a moment, though Snape could hear the whooshing thud of his own heartbeat in his head.

"Well, don't call me 'Master' outside of this room. In fact, don't call me that at all. It sounds really prattish."

Snape could have snorted. For once he and James Potter agreed on something; all it had taken was the enslavement of one rival to the other. "Yes, Master. Shall I continue calling you Potter, then?" he asked politely.

"Trelawny would probably go mad if you called me 'James', so yes."

Snape considered his next question, not wanting to risk speaking out of turn but also needing to know the information. "Master, will we be continuing a show of animosity outside of Gryffindor, or would you prefer I openly attend you as a slave at all times?"

His owner snorted. "I doubt we'll have to put on a show." He peered at Snape, startlement visible through his round-rimmed glasses. "You're a lot more pleasant as a slave, though."

You're a lot more pleasant as a master, Snape caught himself almost thinking.

Potter continued, his voice cooling. "The only thing I want from you is you to keep out of my way. The less I see of you, the better."

"Yes, Master." It was perhaps the most welcome order he had ever received, other than attending Hogwarts. "Shall I sleep in the common room, then? After you are done with me, of course." He kept his voice steady, trying to hide his eagerness. The common room was nice, it had a fire and a warm rug. And it was away from Potter and his gang.

"McGonagall would have a fit! No, you'll have to sleep with us. You don't snore, do you?"

Snape shook his head. "No, Master." He wouldn't have survived into adolescence if he had.

"Alright, then. Just keep quiet and leave us alone. I don't care what you do otherwise. Except calling me 'Master'." I told you, don't do that."

He flinched at the rebuke, but Potter did not pursue it.

So he would have to attend his master and his master's friends all night. It was disappointing and worrisome, because he had no doubt that Potter would soon discover the various ways an owner could torture a slave all night while still enjoying plenty of rest himself. Still, he had to say the words.

"Yes, M—sir. I will do as you command."

Potter rolled his eyes and started to turn away, then stopped, his face tensing. Snape felt his own heartbeat speed up.

"There's one more thing. Sirius tells me you can't betray a secret that I've told you to keep?"

"That's correct, sir."

Potter licked his lips, fingering the fabric of the bed curtains. "Remus is...a werewolf." Snape couldn't repress a flinch. He didn't want to think about how a werewolf would factor into Potter's games. Potter kept speaking, his voice growing authoritative. "You will not speak of it to anyone, is that clear? If anyone finds out because of you, I'll use every technique that's in those books in the library. You know which ones I'm talking about?"

"Yes, Master. I will not speak of Lupin's...illness. I will obey you." He knew he sounded desperate. Of course he did. Those had been Lucius' favorite of all the restricted section. Potter would begin to experiment with them soon, he was sure, but taking them all at once as his master had promised would destroy his mind, if not his body. Despite everything, he wanted to live and be sane.

Relaxing, his master nodded and began pulling parchments out of his bag.

---

It wasn't long before the other Gryffindors returned, Lupin with a stack of books, Black with a heavy basket and an armful of empty mugs and Pettigrew trailing behind with Black's book bag. James got off his bed and took the basket from Black, using the oppurtunity to paw through the contents.

Snape nearly forgot to stand when they came in. He was engrossed in the lessons he had missed, as Potter had loaned him his books and parchment and even allowed him to work at the desk that seemed to accompany the extra bed.

But, in truth, his first instinct was to snarl at the trio, not to stand in respect. Fortunately, no one seemed to notice, and Snape slid back into his seat.

The Gryffindor quartet opened the basket, releasing a heady scent of fresh bread and sweets and various other after-hours treats. They must have charmed the house elves somehow. Snape looked on out of the corner of his eye as the feast began, wary of the party atmosphere and expecting to be called to attend at any moment. Instead, the group seemed content to forget his existence, except for when Black cast a silencing charm over his shoulder so Snape could not hear the laughter and giggles, but only see the friendly jostling and vying for food. After awhile they bent over a crumb-covered parchment, making marks and ticks on the parchment and rude gestures at each other.

It should have pleased him, to be ignored so thoroughly. The last thing he wanted was to be put into service. But instead he felt the familiar rage, thumping like a tribal drum in his chest. Potter's gang was his enemy, his nemesis and it was hard to look at their happy exclusion of him and not want to hex the tower down around their heads.

He swallowed the burning egg that seemed to have grown in his throat and tried to finish his essay. His quill poked a hole through the parchment, which he tried carefully to smooth out. It had been all right when it was just Potter. His master had behaved in a strangely civil manner then, but now he was back with his friends, as cruel and disdainful of Snape as he had ever been. And Snape was left alone, with his borrowed texts, waiting to be called into their circle for their pleasure.

He hated this life.

Forcing himself to turn back to the abused parchment, Snape did his best to quell the pounding rage in his chest and focus on proving his worth as an educated slave.

---

When Potter's gang finally scattered across the room to their own beds, Snape quickly extinguished the light at his desk and settled down on the soft, thick carpet. He was as quiet as possible, hoping that the Gryffindors would forget his existence just for this first night.

He lay down on his back on the floor staring at the ceiling for a long time—it seemed to him, anyway. He knew he wouldn't sleep, but he wasn't stupid enough to try tossing and turning. It was harder sleeping in the room; at least in Slytherin he would be left to his own devices in the common room when he wasn't wanted.

He heard the sound of rustling sheets and shifting limbs from Potter's bed. Snape froze, waiting.

"Snape?"

Snape dug his fingernails into the carpet. "Yes, Master?"

"Where are you?"

"On the floor." Snape's fingertips sung into the thick pile as well.

"Oh." A pause. "Why?"

For this, Snape had no answer.

Fortunately, Potter seemed too sleepy to either pursue the matter or punish his slave for insolence. "Well, all right. G'night, then."

There was the rustle of blankets again, and then the only sound was of Black and Pettigrew snoring.

---

Snape woke just before dawn, feeling groggy but surprisingly warm. There was a blanket tucked in around him, smelling musty and bearing the Hogwarts crest on one corner. He sighed; the house elves could not stand to see a child go cold, and it had taken no small amount of bargaining to get them to leave off on the days his punishments included losing the "civil comforts."

Hoping none of the boys in the dorm had seen him, he shook off the blanket and sat up, intending to hide the evidence in the trunk Lupin had indicated was his. But as he began to fold the blanket, he noticed that his master's bed was...empty.

The sour taste of panic filled his mouth. He was never allowed to sleep later than his master; that was an unforgivable sign of disrespect and inattendence. At the very least, Lucius would have kicked him awake and made him spend the next three nights kneeling by his bed.

Snape bit his lip, looking over at the pale morning light slowly filtering over the foggy mountains. What was his master—and, as he looked around at the other empty beds—his three friends doing out of their dorm room at first light? The answer was obvious, of course: the four boys were the most notorious pranksters in the school. He wondered who the new victim would be, now that Snape was available to much more intimate abuses. He wondered if he would be punished for being either asleep or awake when they returned.

Most likely, he would be punished regardless, so he might as well make some use of the time.

Sighing, he settled down at the desk, hoping to catch up enough on charms before the scheduled test this morning.

On his desk was a stark square of parchment, bearing an untidy scrawl:

blockquote Snape,  
What the hell were you doing sleeping on the floor last night, trying to trip us. I shouldn't have to tell you, but if you dare breath a word of this to McGonagall or anyone, hanging upside down without your pants will seem like a pleasant afternoon. And burn this note. /blockquote

On a sigh, Snape Incendio'd the note, glad it was one of the few bits of wandless magic he knew. He stared at the small pile of black ash on his charms essay. Oddly, his first reaction was to laugh; the anger and offence in the tone seemed so juvenile when compared with Lucius's subtle, sadistic promises. Lucius knew there was no need to threaten a slave; the threat was carried in every breath and gesture of the master. Of course he wouldn't alert McGonagall to his master's foibles. He wasn't that eager for pain. But it was encouraging to know that Potter was not familiar with wizarding slavery on a personal level. It might give him some freedom before Potter realized the power that rested in his hands.

He brushed the ash off his charms paper and went back to work.

---

James was furious. He and Sirius had been trying to stuff Moaning Myrtle into the girls' toilet and weave a spell which would release her the the next time the toilet flushed. They'd almost had it when James had heard the bathroom door open and a moment later had turned around to find a red-faced McGonagall standing, hands on her hips, in her dressing gown.

She had dragged them out by their ears. They had been met by a red-faced Remus and Peter, whose shoulders were each caught in the dirty hands of Argus Filch.

McGonagall had dragged them all into her office and given them an ear-ringing tirade on Ghosts' Rights and the cost of repairing Hogwarts' plumbing. She had sentenced them to spend the rest of the day cleaning every toilet on the grounds. Lupin, with his sensitive hearing, was actually rubbing his ears when they were finally thrown out.

Red-faced and silent—though more from the unbearable shame of having been caught than any sympathy for Moaning Myrtle—they trudged back to the dorms. The sun was just coming up, which meant none of them would have more than a half-night's sleep today.

The moment Sirius made it through the door, he had grabbed Snape's collar and was hauling him off his chair, a bottle of ink upturning on a sheet of parchment. The other boy's face became even paler, and James saw a shaking hand grip the edge of the desk for balance.

"Sirius," he yelled. "What are you doing?"

"The little freak snitched on us," Sirius growled, giving Snape a shake. "Tell me we're going to make him pay for that."

Snape was shaking his head, staring at the maroon carpet in front of James's feet. James froze, unwilling to defend Snape in front of his friends, but also unwilling to let someone he was supposed to be responsible for suffer for something he probably hadn't done. Amazing, he'd never cared whether Snape was actually guilty before.

"We're going to skin you, you little worm, we're going to peel the skin right off your bones," Sirius hissed. James watched Snape shudder and felt himself blanch.

"Pads, that's enough." James stared at his best friend. He had never seen him like this before. "Let him go, he hasn't done anything."

Sirius turned to him, an ugly snarl on his face, before shoving the slave into the desk and turning back to his own bed.

James took a breath and stole a glance at Snape who was holding his hip with one hand and staring at him with black eyes. Normally he would have hissed something about rudeness and staring, but now he felt compelled to make up for Sirius's behavior. He walked over to Snape's desk and righted the upturned ink bottle—he would be stealing one off Sirius to replace it—and Evanesco'd the mess on the parchment out of existence, leaving the tight scrawl underneath intact. He was showing off a bit, but without a wand, Snape would have had to recopy the essay by hand. This was the nicest thing he could think to do for the slave that didn't require him to actually look at him.

Still, he felt Snape's eyes on him as he went back to his own bed and closed the curtains so he could change.


	5. Chapter 5

Quidditch practice was a disaster. Sirius refused to speak with him, but continued to beat the Bludgers at his head with far more force and frequency than was necessary, causing James to fall off his broom twice and miss half the Quaffle passes. James got off the pitch tired and bruised and ready to pound his best friend right into the Whomping Willow, but Sirius stole out of the locker room without looking at him. James groaned and punched the shower. Then winced when he found that the ancient granite was harder than his fist.

He didn't understand Sirius. He'd seemed off since the beginning of the year, snapping at everyone in snapping range. He'd even gone after Lily, who had promptly turned his robes purple and charmed his wand to sing the Hogwarts Tune every time he tried to hex someone. And this morning James had been almost certain Sirius had meant the things he had said, had wanted to do those things to Snape.

As James pulled his robes on, he tried to think back to when his best friend had turned into a lunatic beast.

He'd seemed fine at the end of fifth year, if to have to go back to Grimmauld Place. But that was nothing unusual; Sirius hated his family. But then, James hadn't been paying as much attention as he should have been. He had already been distracted by Snape and what he had seen that day after O.W.L.s and by the other student's sudden disappearance.

Sirius had shown up on his doorstep in the middle of the summer. He'd looked pale and drawn, but he'd been joking and whining that he just had to get away from his family for awhile. James's mum had taking an instant liking to his friend, and Sirius had quickly reverted to his usual high-spirited, prankish self. He'd kipped three weeks on the couch before one day packing up his messy sprawl, kissing James's mum on the cheek (she'd turned bright red) and waving good-bye. In all that time, Sirius hadn't mentioned anything being wrong, other than the usual odiousness of Sirius's parents. But then, James hadn't said anything about the plan he was forming to rescue his worst enemy, either.

Something had happened that summer that had changed Sirius into this high-strung, foul-tempered arsehole that bore only a passing resemblance to his best friend. Maybe he'd been kidnapped and replaced on his way back from James's home? It didn't seem likely. Maybe he had been dosed with Morosa draught. But those symptoms usually wore off within a week. Maybe he was being Imperio'd to drink it?

James shook his head. His theories were wild and he knew it. Carefully, he swept his tangled, disjointed thoughts into the whirring box in his mind and decided to let his subconscious deal with it. Because figuring out why Sirius was acting like such a pig-headed prat had to take second string to figuring out how to make Sirius stop acting like a pig-headed prat, even if he had to tie him up and Silencio him himself.

Finally, he ruffled up his hair and walked up to the great hall for dinner.

---

Snape opened his eyes in time to see the sun falling over the mountains. Groaning, he rubbed the sore spot where his head had been leaning against the gray boulder that shielded him from Hogwarts' view. He shifted, feeling stiff and sore, but not chilled. Looking down he found a Hogwarts blanket tucked around him once more and sighed. One day the house-elves' attentions were going to get him into trouble.

He stood up, ignoring the popping and creaking in his bones, and stretched. After folding the blanket neatly into the dinner basket the house elves had also brought him, he dusted off his books and turned to face Hogwarts. If it were up to him, he'd spend the rest of the night—and all the following nights—under this boulder, covered in the house elves' charmed blankets. The thought was hopeless and stupid. If he tried it, he'd be accused of running, punished, and lose what freedom he had. Besides, last week he hadn't ever expected to see the outside, let alone Hogwarts' lake again.

A slave at a public school was a scandal; a slave studying at a public school was an outrage. Now that he'd lost the identity as the Malfoys' odd but brilliant chairty case, they couldn't continue to allow him to stay without losing face. With no possibility of becoming a real potions master, no chance of spying for the Malfoys in that elite circle now that his position was revealed, and certainly no appeal as a pleasure slave, he had become entirely worthless. Rather than simply execute him, Lucius had chosen to let him die of of slow starvation and torture; it was apparently more entertaining that way.

Then, there was Potter. Snape was sure he was supposed to be grateful for the reprieve, but he couldn't help wondering what Potter had planned and if it wouldn't have been better to have died in a few weeks under Lucius' hand than to suffer a possible lifetime under Potter's.

But that was another useless line of reasoning. He couldn't kill himself, and even if he could, he'd fought too long for his own survival to surrender it now.

He had taken advantage of Potter's edict that he was to keep far out of sight and out of mind and spent the afternoon—and part of the evening, now—working on his wandless magic. He wasn't terribly adept, but if Potter didn't get him a new wand he would be helpless otherwise.

Even if his new master did get him a new wand, he had learned that even the possessions he had once viewed as an extension of his body could be taken away on a whim. His knowledge and his magic could not be stripped so easily.

It was dusk by the time he made it into the castle. It was about the time Slytherin upper years would have been expecting his services. He wasn't sure when Potter would want him in the dormitory, or in the common room where he could gather favors from the Gryffindor upper years. Previously, his true status had only been known to the Slytherin Seventh years, and Malfoy's closest followers, but now the secret was out.

He wondered what he'd be traded for tonight. The Slytherins had wanted him for equal parts sex, torture and homework. He was hoping that the Gryffindors were as academically pathetic as their Slytherin counterparts.

The common room broke into whispers when he slunk into it. Snape ignored them, even though his face still turned red, making his spots stand out even more. Good. If it made him even more repulsive, maybe they'd take advantage of his brain instead of his body.

Nobody looked his way, nobody stood to claim him. He glanced once more around the shabby, bright room and assumed he must be expected to entertain the quartet. He hated the curved staircases, and the way the curled iron left him open to the stares of others as he dragged himself up to meet whatever fate had been designed for him that night. He could almost taste the eagerness and disgust.

He slipped through the dormitory door as quietly as possible. The room was lit by the usual string of colored stars twinkling under the wooden ceiling and torches flickering on the wall. Good. The things he feared most were things few chose to do when the lights were on. Since nobody seemed interested in him for the moment, he pulled out some borrowed parchment and was able to recover enough ink to finish his notes from the spilled bottle by mixing a little water in.

Slipping into the desk he was dangerously beginning to think of as his, he chewed on a nib as he outlined his potion essay. Most of his teachers, with the exception of Slughorn, had given him work—sometimes sandwiched by sympathetic looks—to help him make up for the first few weeks he had missed. Slughorn had simply ignored him when he'd stayed after to see if there was anything he could do to make up the material. The corpulent professor had gone about cleaning up his lab as if he had not heard Snape's quiet, dignified pleas. Even when the desks were clean and the cauldrons put away, Slughorn had merely handed him this year's syllabus without a word.

At least he was far enough ahead in potions that he could probably make up the point difference, since he was already years ahead of the class. And one day, did circumstances permit, Slughorn would know what it was like to beg and not be heard.

---

His breath hitched a few hours later when the twinkling ceiling lights dimmed and winked out. He'd been lucky the night before; Potter's gang had been too busy plotting mayhem to call him to their beds. But tonight they were angry and frustrated and brooding about their afternoon detentions. Black's earlier words drifted into his mind. He'd partially expected them to haul them to the middle of the room and beat him bloody, but they apparently each preferred a private catharsis. Lucky him.

He knelt on the carpet. He hadn't been called for and he certainly wasn't going to offer, but he had no doubt one of the gang would notice him soon.

"Snape?" Potter's voice was pitched low, though there was no chance of the others not hearing him.

"Yes, Master," Snape whispered back, then flinched. He had forgotten Potter did not like to be called that. He waited to see if he would be punished right away or later.

"Why are you sitting on the floor?"

Why are you asking inane questions, Snape almost snapped back, nearly biting his tongue off to stop himself. It was hard having his former rival as a master; it was too easy to forget, and thus incur punishment. He leashed his tongue and answered, "I am waiting for instructions."

"Instructions?" Potter had forgotten to whisper. "It's eleven at night, who could possibly be giving you instructions?"

Snape sat silent, speechless. He realized that there was no way to answer that last question that would not bring some kind of punishment upon himself. He hoped Potter would answer his own question, because Snape couldn't guess whether it was as naïve as it sounded or an opening gambit to some long, painful game Potter was playing.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Black sit up in his bed and part the curtains. "Read between the lines, James," Black growled. "He's probably waiting for you to bugger him."

"Sirius!" the werewolf yelped.

But Potter was silent and Snape felt the tremor spread through his whole body. He had no idea what they were playing at. The uncertainty was why he hated mind games.

He held himself still, waiting to see how this would go.

Potter broke the silence. "What the hell is wrong with you, Black?"

"With me? It's your slave that—"

"That what? He isn't even doing anything."

"It's more the fact that he exists, right?" Snape could hear the sneer, the same one that had been on Black's face when Potter had first said those words.

Potter was silent again and Snape struggled to see his master's expression through the dark. Either this was one elaborate mind-fuck, or he was caught in the middle of some private battle between the Siamese twins of Hogwarts. Neither would be preferable.

"That was different. And this is a dumb argument. Snape, why exactly are you on the floor?"

Wonderful. He'd likely be safer sandwiched between mating dragons than in the middle of this crossfire. Knowing better than to disagree with his master, Snape offered the most convenient parcel of truth. "I was waiting for permission to use the bed, master."

"That's just—oh, bugger it. Just go to bed, Snape. You don't need my permission to sleep in your own bed. Sirius, just shut it for tonight."

Sirius snorted but said nothing.

His own bed? He supposed that meant he wasn't supposed to crawl in with Potter. Not yet, anyway.

He scrambled up, fumbling with the bed linens even as he tried to maintain his nonchalance. He had to play along, but he did not like how the night was going. Even Potter wasn't so dense he couldn't hear the truth in Black's words. Despite the pissing contest with Black, there could be nothing innocent about ordering a slave into the bed next to yours. If Potter really hadn't intended on using him, he would have just ordered him to go to sleep on the floor. Slaves never slept in a bed when in the presence of their betters. Which meant a slave alone in a bed wasn't meant for sleeping, and wouldn't be alone for long.

Snape forced himself to lay flat on his back, legs slightly spread, open and vulnerable. His heartbeat was shaking his chest and his lungs felt so constricted it hurt to breathe. Stupid. He'd done this before, and it wouldn't hurt any worse than it had the hundreds of other times it had happened. But this first time was always the worst. After that he would know what to expect. So he just had to get through this once.

He stared at the ceiling, waiting for the rustle of linen, the soft footsteps and the whisper of a silencing charm as they drew apart the bed curtains.

The minutes stretched, with him flinching at every huff and snort. He could tell neither Potter nor Black were asleep. They must be biding their time.

He knew this game. He forced the cramping muscles in his arms and legs to relax and used the moonlight to count the rings holding his bed curtain to the frame. It helped, counting. The first assault would be awhile in coming. The counting and the knowledge of even a short respite eased the pressure on his chest and let him breath a little bit.

After he was done counting the rings a dozen different ways, he focused on his breathing. He knew his time was growing short, and the realization made his breath speed up, but he kept his eyes open and thought of Slughorn, thought of using dozens of Sectumsempras on the corpulent body until the quivering mass of flesh ceased to move or beg or breathe. He thought of a dozen different ways to exact revenge, the excitement and the fierce satisfaction from the fantasy allowed him to keep his eyes open and his body waiting.

It was a long, long time before his dry eyes registered the cold, gray light filtering in from the windows. He blinked, bringing his hand up to clear his eyes. It was almost dawn and yet he was...untouched.

He held his breath and listened around the room. He was good at telling when people were faking sleep and the soft, shallow breathing around the room whispered that he was safe. At first he felt a panicked rush, not understanding. Then, he realized what must have happened.

Potter and Black were new to this game. It was just possible that they had forgotten to set alarms...and fallen asleep. His sigh turned into a muffled, almost crazed chuckle. Merlin, could it really be that easy? Oh, there would be consequences, but those consequences weren't likely to be much worse than what he was going to get anyway.

He didn't think anyone would wake up until near breakfast time, not after they had apparently lost half their sleep the night before. Sleep for himself was ridiculous; there was no way he could close his eyes and stay sane thinking about what might be on the other side of them when he woke. He scrubbed his face with a palm. The only thing left to do was start his day.

Quietly, he rose and padded his way to the showers.

---

James pulled his pillow around his ears, trying to drown out the trilling faeries circling around his head.

"No, go 'way..."

A fairy poked its wand into the back of his neck insistently.

"Stop, lea' me 'lone."

He heard the creature huff and buzz around his ear. Without warning, it dove up one of his nostrils and wriggled.

"Ah!" He bolted upright and sneezed; they fairy was hurled dripping into his bed cover. Quickly, it got to its feet and stared up at him defiantly, hands on its hips.

"All right ! All right , I'm up...just go away, please."

Sparing a disgusted look for its snot covered wings, the fairy fluttered off the bed, leading its smirking cohorts into the glass sphere that sat on the table next to his bed.

James struggled out of his tangled sheets and flung aside his bed curtains to find Remus sitting on the end of his chair with a smirk to match that of his fairies.

He lifted a hand to his rumpled hair. "Some bloody great birthday present, Moony. Ta ever so."

Moony rolled his eyes. "It was either that or listen to you moan about missing breakfast every morning. Hurry up and we'll still make it."

"It flew up my nose!" James whinged, pulling on his robes. He was tempted to fall back into bed, but wasn't sure what the fairies would do to him if he did. Looking over at the bed next to his, he found it empty.

"Where'd Snape go?"

Moony shrugged in a 'who knows' way. "He was gone when I woke up. Look, James, about what Sirius said..."

"Sirius is full of it. You heard what Snape said."

Remus fiddled with the tattered ends of his tie. "I'm not sure about that. He sounded pretty certain and," his eyes darted to the center of the floor, "did you see how Snape reacted?"

James shook his head and looked toward the door. It had been too dark for him to see, but, then, he hadn't tried very hard.

"It was pretty dark, but he didn't look shocked or anything. He looked kind of scared, actually."

Shoving his books into a bag, James shook his head. "That's stupid. Everyone knows I'm not...like that. And...with Snape? I'd rather eat dead lizard brains."

Moony was silent for a moment, then shrugged. James followed him downstairs, ignoring the niggling that there was something Remus wasn't saying.

---

Snape took a risk and left Gryffindor tower before any of the boys had woken up. He knew Potter might be angry that he had slept through his expected first night with his slave, and he wasn't sure if he would be able to function through class if he had a beating on top of his already sleepless night. It would be easier to bear at the end of the day, when he would have at least some of the night to recover.

He pressed his forehead against the library table, trying to will off the headache blooming between his eyes and the churning in his stomach. He'd already finished his second Transfiguration essay and was struggling through Arithmancy. He was tempted to crawl under a table and sleep through his study period, but, dammit, he had three weeks of missed classes and he had to catch up.

Forcing his head up, he reached for the nearest tome and opened it to stare at the blurry lines.

He was staring at the same lines forty minutes later when he felt a body fall into the chair next to his.

"Fancy meeting you here." Lupin's voice cut through the dazed fog in his head. Snape froze, then started to fall to his knees.

"No, don't do that. I just want to talk."

Warily, Snape settled back in his seat and nodded. He'd heard those words plenty of times before, but this time they were in the library. With Madam Pince.

Lupin peered over the titles scattered on the table and winced. Snape was glad he had kept the treatises on wandless magic in the care of the house elves.

_"Advanced Integration of Ratillii's Spiral Theorem in Modern Arithmancy_. Have you actually read this thing?"

Snape doubted that Lupin was here because he wanted to discuss esoteric arithmantic theorems, so he answered honestly. "No. I needed a chapter for reference."

Lupin looked relieved as he scanned the pages. "So you don't actually understand all this?"

Snape was tempted to lie just to see the expression on the werewolf's face, but knew it wasn't worth the risk. "No. The second chapter gives a good overview of Ratillian Arithmantic Symbols. The rest of it..."

"Has more shit than a fat dragon."

Snape couldn't hold back an surprised snort.

Lupin's expression changed. "Sn—Severus, about what Sirius said last night..."

Snape started at the sound of his given name, then listened with a growing sense of suspicion.

"He sounded like...like he meant it."

Oh roasted dragon balls, was that what this was about? Half-blood Lupin was having trouble accepting the reality of pure-blooded slavery?

He considered lying, but that was dangerous, not to mention pointless. He considered refusing to answer, but that was dangerous and foolish. At least this way he might have some control of the information.

"Yes, he was telling the truth." He kept his voice neutral, but kept watch on Lupin out of the corner of his eye.

The werewolf seemed almost to wince, and a line formed between the two bushy eyebrows. "So...you did expect James to, you know, to—"

"Take advantage of his slave?" Snape answered softly. He shrugged. "It's what happens."

"But James isn't, I mean, you aren't—" Lupin stuttered to a stop, turning bright red.

At least this conversation was turning out to be amusing as well as humiliating, Snape thought. "I'm a slave, I don't have a gender except when it comes to breeding." He didn't even try to keep the bitterness from his voice. "I am _instrumentum vocalis_, a tool with a voice. Potter can use me all he wants without threatening his masculinity."

The werewolf's reaction wasn't strong, but the pinching of his thin lips and the slight wrinkle in the nose revealed his disgust. The look vanished as Lupin seemed to cast about for something to say, finally settling on, "Oh...sod."

Snape found himself fighting the up-twitching in the corners of his mouth in. "Well said, Lupin," he replied. Then he tensed, suddenly unsure whether the familiarity would get him into trouble or not.

The werewolf just gave a half smile that was surprisingly friendly. "Ta ever so."

Snape felt the corners of his mouth tugging upwards again. The awkwardness eased slightly from the air between them. Despite the content of the conversation, it was nice to speak to a person almost as if he were an equal. It wouldn't last, and there was always the chance he would end up paying for it later, but for now it was...pleasant.

"James won't, you know. Do that to you, I mean."

Snape shrugged.

"What, you don't believe me?"

So much for that pleasant feeling, he thought. "I believe you. Lucius wasn't much for it, either." At least, not without a plethora of mind games and torture preceding. Even then, sex had never been the main objective.

"But I thought you said..." Lupin's voice was plaintive and confused, but free of anger or annoyance.

"I'm hardly the most attractive thing he could take to his bed." As long as what he wanted was consensual. "That...wasn't what he used me for, most of the time."

His eyes fell to the table. With Lupin, it was hard to detach himself enough to describe his life without feeling something akin to a boot against his chest as he spoke. Perhaps it was that Lupin truly didn't understand what he was and what he had to do. "Lucius preferred to use me as a bargaining chip for those who were not quite as charming as himself or as well prepared for their lessons."

Lupin's mouth stood open. "That's...barbaric. They would...and then make you do their homework?"

Snape shrugged again. "Only sometimes. I usually just helped them with it. That wasn't so bad; it helped me remember that I might be a slave, but at least I didn't spell cat with a K."

For a moment, Lupin looked even more horrified. Snape wondered if it was the mention of his enslavement or the academic travesty that was Crabbe and Goyle.

Lupin was silent for awhile, and Snape massaged his throbbing temples. He shouldn't be talking; he should be studying. He should certainly not be talking with such familiarity to his master's friend. But this was the first truly civil conversation that he could remember having with anyone human. It almost felt as if it was a different person doing the talking, as if he'd traded places with some freeborn Gryffindor and he got to play the part for a little while. It was nice.

"Huh."

Snape looked up to find Lupin staring at him. "What?"

"It's just strange is all."

Snape sighed and closed the tome. "Could you be a bit more abstruse? Someone might understand what you were saying."

"Ah, there it is."

"There what is?" Snape was beginning to get annoyed, and a little worried. He'd thought Lupin wasn't going to play games with him. At least, not yet.

"The sarcasm. I was commenting on the fact that you'd managed to speak to me for a whole five minutes without once cutting anything with that tongue of yours."

Was Lupin a mind reader? "It's in my best interest now to keep you happy."

"Which is why you snapped at me just now?"

Snape felt cold wash over him. He'd gone to far. "My apologies, sir. I meant no disrespect." He started to get to his knees.

"Stop!" Lupin looked even more pale than usual. "I never said I minded. I was just surprised, is all." He chewed on his lower lip. "I don't like this slave and master routine. It's just weird. You never acted like this before."

Snape relaxed fractionally. "Potter said the same thing. Really, baiting you was the easiest way to make my former master happy." Snape deliberately emphasized his vulnerable position and smoothly glossed over the fact that his hatred of the quartet had been quite genuine—and might be, now, still. He wasn't sure. Neither Potter nor Lupin were behaving like he'd expected.

At least Black was staying in character.

They sat in silence that was only slightly awkward for a little while longer. In a way, that was nice. He'd felt awkward and uncomfortable on an hourly basis for much of his life, but almost never had another person acknowledged his humanity enough to feel the same around him. Finally, Lupin looked at his watch and sighed.

"I've got class now. I'll see you at supper, I suppose." He gathered up his books.

"I suppose." He stood up and almost bowed to the departing boy, before stopping himself. Instead, he offered a slight nod, as he'd seen Lucius do with the few people he'd considered semi-equals.

Lupin smiled and left. Snape wiped his hair back and shook his head, trying to clear out the almost-pleasant feeling that had seeped into his chest.


	6. Chapter 6

The most lovely thing about being a sixth year was the free periods. Ideally, the free time was to be used for studying, but as they were only two weeks into the school year, there was plenty of time left for procrastination. James used his time to stroll down by the lake, looking for something to amuse himself and take his mind off the conversation he'd had with Moony before breakfast. He walked along the edge of the lake, scanning the still waters for a glimpse of the giant squid, and watching the grass on the other side for some sign of—Snape. He was looking for Snape. Without realizing it, he had developed the habit over the years of strolling the grounds near the lake, waiting for Snape to arrive, which he always had. Picking a fight with Snape had been one of the easiest ways to relieve his boredom, even if he had not always come out the victor in their confrontations.

And he was still looking for Snape, though if he saw him now he was more likely to stroll in the opposite direction. He didn't know how to deal with the other boy now that he couldn't in good conscience pick a fight with him. He wondered, not for the first time, what mad impulse had driven him to rescue Snape from the Malfoy family.

He caught sight of a flash of red hair out by the willow. He squinted, adjusting his glasses, though he knew already who it would be. James crept closer to the willow, and the long figure and red hair resolved clearly into Lily Evans, propped up against the tree, long legs stretched out in front of her. Books were scattered around her and one was even spread open across her legs, but her face was tilted up towards the sun as it hung above the forbidden forest.

And suddenly it didn't matter that he was sixteen and skinny and only had to use a shaving charm every five days—he was in love.

He started to walk in her direction, but his heart started to race and his palms started to sweat and he began to remember that the last time she had seen him, she had called him an arrogant, bullying toe-rag.

He'd rescued Snape. That had to count for something. Absolution for being...an arrogant, bullying toe-rag. Of course, it had been his actions that had caused Snape to lose his position at Hogwarts and get shipped off to Malfoy Manor...and there was any use thinking about this? He should just go up to Lily and start...talking.

Right. After all, he'd managed to fit his whole left foot into his mouth; it was time to start working on his right. His feet apparently had fewer concerns than his brain, however, because, while he was thinking, they were carrying him over to the willow.

Lily looked up when his shadow blocked her ray of sunlight. Her eyes flickered open and stared at him, before a familiar expression of dislike colored her green eyes.

Damn.

"Hullo," he said, originally.

"Potter."

James winced. Her voice couldn't possibly have gotten colder, could it?

"I, uh, saw you sitting here and I thought I'd ask you if you'd go to Hogsmeade with me this weekend?" After a brief stumble, he'd managed to smooth out the delivery of this familiar line. Good. He hadn't been turned down yet.

"Potter, you're disgusting."

"What?" Where had that come from? "What did I do?"

Her green eyes flashed, making his mouth get drier and his palms get sweatier. "You—you—you don't even see it, do you!"

James shook his head, his eyebrows attempting to meet in the middle, even though that was Moony's department. "No. I mean—no, I don't. Will you please just explain it to me?"

"You have a slave! You took Snape and you made him your slave." Her lithe body was tense and her voice was strained with passionate fury. And would his libido just leave him enough blood in his head to think, please?

"No—I mean, yes, but he was already Malfoy's slave --"

"So that makes it just fine, then?"

"No! Er, not the slave part, but there was nothing I could do about that."

Lily looked at him skeptically.

"Really, you can't free him. Look it up. The geas is a part of him, he can't survive without it, anymore."

"So you just thought it would be alright to claim him like a cheap broomstick? You couldn't hurt him enough when he was Malfoy's slave?"

Bollocks, did he have ogre engraved on his forehead? "I haven't hurt him. I didn't buy him to hurt him."

"Oh? Then what did you buy him for?" She still looked disgusted, but had the ice in her voice cracked, a bit?

"I --" Wanted to impress you, wasn't the best answer, nor was it the fullest, at least, he didn't think so. He reached around for the first thing he could think of that wouldn't get him slapped. "It was my fault he was exposed. Malfoy took him out of school because of that."

"Why would you care?" But this time, her tone was curious and the angry lines of her face had smoothed out.

Potter shrugged. "I never meant for it to go that far. Snape's a person, after all." Strange, that he hadn't started thinking of the other boy that way until he had realized that he wasn't one, legally.

Lily was staring up at him thoughtfully. It was unfair that he could stand above her, the sun behind him, one of the best duelers in the school, and this girl could sit on the ground in her rumpled skirt and jumper and still intimidate him half to death.

"Maybe," she said, still staring at him.

"Maybe...?" Maybe what? Maybe you're telling the truth? Maybe you're not lake scum that the squid scraped off one of its suckers after all? Maybe I'm madly in love with you and want to elope right now? What?

"Maybe...I'll go with you to Hogsmeade."

It felt like someone had pulled the top off a bottle of champagne in his chest. "You will? Really?"

She scowled. "You know what the word maybe means, right?"

He nodded. "Yes. I mean, maybe. I mean, yes, I know. Maybe." He stopped nodding. He was running out of foot to put in his mouth.

But Lily was smiling, her green eyes sparkling with something that made the champagne turn into fireworks.

He grinned back at her, delighted to be able to look into her eyes and see the little smile lines around them. "So," he said, finally, to keep the moment from getting awkward. "I'll see you then?"

Lily hesitated, then nodded. "I'll see you tomorrow."

---

Snape pressed his forehead against the door frame to McGonagall's classroom. He shouldn't be this tired, not from a single sleepless night and an odd encounter with a Gryffindor, but clearly the last three months in Lucius' hands had worn him down more than he had realized. Surprising, considering all the replenishing draughts and healing potions Caligulus Malfoy had forced him to drink to keep him from keeling over in the middle of the sale and ritual.

He shook his head and went in, glad he was the first one to arrive. Before he could sit down, McGonagall's sharp voice halted him.

"Mr. Snape. Come speak with me for a moment?"

"Yes, Professor." He approached the broad desk hesitantly, remembering that this was his new master's head of house and wondering what it was she wanted from him.

"Where are you in the material I gave you?"

"Inanimate to semi-animate transfigurations. I've just finished with the reptile family, but if you just give me a few more days—"

"Take as many days as you need, within reason. You've already gone through almost two weeks of material in as many days. That's quite impressive." Snape felt his cheeks start to warm. McGonagall had rarely complimented him, even when she hadn't known he was a slave. "However, today will be a practical lesson on animate to animate transfigurations with insects. I'm afraid I can't let you participate."

Snape felt something small and heavy drop into his insides. He'd been afraid of this, that the professors who hadn't known of his status would start to shut him out of their classes, embarrassed to be teaching a slave. He felt the path to the Potions Guild growing longer and more impossible by the day. He opened his mouth, but couldn't think of anything to say.

"Mr. Snape, I don't believe anyone has every looked so miserable at being let out of a lesson."

Snape looked away, staring at the door to the supply cupboard.

"If you'd like, you may work on catching up in my office. I have some reference materials that aren't in the school library. They may prove helpful to you."

Snape's eyes jerked up to look McGonagall in the face. He'd never been talented at Transfigurations, but the subject had always secretly fascinated him. He couldn't count the number of times he had wished he could turn himself into something else, something entirely different than what he was. The thought of having access to the Professor's private references was exciting to say the least.

Why was she offering this to him? Did she want something in return? She didn't seem likely to want any of the things he could offer. And was the straight, thin line of her mouth curving up ever so slightly at the edges? Of all the things that had happened this morning, that might be the strangest.

"The books on the third shelf up pertain to this year and last year, and below that the years preceding. The shelves above that contain more advanced subjects. Do keep in mind that top shelves contain some rather rare and peculiar texts, which I will ask you not to touch. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Professor." He didn't even try to conceal his eagerness.

"Very well. The password to my office is 'tortoiseshell.'"

"Thank you, professor." He started toward the plain wood door that he assumed led to McGonagall's office, but glanced back when he heard the door opening. He froze when he saw Potter shuffling in. He almost ran for the door, but Potter lifted his downward gaze long enough to catch sight of him.

Then the gaze slid away and Potter threw himself into a seat by the back, pointedly avoiding looking towards the front of the classroom where he and Professor McGonagall were standing. Snape decided to take that as a dismissal, and bolted for the door.

Inside, he found a narrow, spiral staircase leading up. Suddenly he was unsure. Was this a trap? He had never been inside a teacher's office before and he wasn't sure what to expect.

He wasn't about to go back and ask, not with Potter out there. So he climbed. The staircase wasn't long, but he was breathing hard by the time he reached another plain, pine door. He said the password again and the door swung upon, revealing a round, neatly cluttered room. A large desk stood in front of a narrow window and the walls were lined with bookcases. He wondered which bookcases Professor McGonagall had been referring to, but as he went to examine the title, he found that, indeed, each book on the third shelf up pertained to something that was on the syllabus for this year or last year, just in extraordinary detail. He imagined that every principle and spell he had learned by rote was discussed and debated somewhere on this shelf.

Amazing. Though he wondered how long McGonagall had been teaching for her to arrange such an expansive collection by class instead of subject. He vowed then and there never to become a teacher.

He glanced at the higher shelves and found books on Animagi, self-transfiguration and spontaneous transfiguration, as well as books on spells, curses and potions that he assumed related to the subject somehow. On impulse, he glanced at the top shelf, and suddenly felt as if one of the bookcases had fallen on his chest.

A set of gold-embossed letters on a stiff leather spine read, Erinyos Acerbos Transformare, Lape Tragane.

_To transform dark curses_, by Lapis Tragen. An interesting title on its own, but Snape had seen references to it during his furtive studies over the years. It was the only text to discuss the possibility of removing the geas that bound him to his master.

Of course, it would be on the one shelf he wasn't allowed to touch. It was also just out of his reach, and he couldn't wandlessly Accio it to him without potentially bringing the whole shelf down on his head. And that would not endear him to McGonagall.

But if the universe had wanted to make things easier for him, he would have been born free and Gryffindor with a famous potions master for a father, instead of a faceless stud carefully selected from the breeding stock.

It was a practical lesson, so McGonagall would have to at least introduce the subject before she could come up here and check on him. As quickly and quietly as he could, he dragged the chair out from behind the desk, took off his shoes before climbing up and tugged the hefty volume from its place on the shelf and cradled it as he stepped down. He laid the book on the desk before replacing the chair and picking out several more volumes on the subject he was supposed to be studying.

Having scattered the books around him to provide camouflage, Snape settled down the floor to read.

Snape had meant to skip around briefly, only looking for confirmation or denial of his hopes. But from the first page he became engrossed in the reading, unable to tear his eyes away from the next word. His Latin was excellent and Tragen was a master at unraveling complex ideas clearly and concisely, making each new leap of logic seem the most natural discovery in the world.

Until a hand grabbed his shoulder and a sharp voice said, "It seems that Mr. Potter has rubbed off on you. I do believe I asked you not to touch the books on the top shelf?"

Snape startled and snapped the book shut. A wave of dizziness overcame him and he briefly shut his eyes. It passed in a moment and he was left staring up at the sharp and narrow face of Professor McGonagall.

"Professor, I—I --" He bit his tongue and looked away, realizing that there was nothing he could say. He had done exactly what he had been told not to; worse, he'd been reading a book that might hold a way for him to escape his servitude. If Potter heard...and he would hear...

"Yes? You have an explanation?"

Snape shook his head. "No, Professor. I just—I wanted to read it."

"Yes, I'm sure you did. Can you tell me what you read?"

Snape blinked at the non sequitur, but he nearly went cross-eyed when he realized that he could not remember any of what he had read. The last—he glanced at the clock on the other side of the room—two hours were lost to him. But it had seem so simple, so clear and obvious when he was reading—his first clue that he had been under thrall.

"You realize now why that book was on the top shelf, I trust?"

Snape stared at the woven carpet threads by his feet. He could not remember the last time he had been so stupid, and he was going to suffer for it soon. "Yes, Professor."

"Lapis Tragen was a Gaelic witch who lived as a nun in medieval Ireland. She charmed her books to enthrall the reader, but strip the contents of the book from the reader's mind the moment the reader's eyes left the book, to prevent the other nuns from realizing what she was and what she was doing. Something she was a bit more clever at than you, I'm afraid."

Snape stole a glance up. There had been no change in inflection, but that last had sounded like humor, like a kind of gentle teasing. But that made no sense; this was Deputy Head-mistress McGonagall and, beyond everything else, he had broken a rule.

"Were you looking for anything in particular, or just browsing the forbidden?"

Was this her idea of a clever interrogation? If he told her what he was looking for, she would realize that he was considering escape and the punishment for that would probably break him. He remained defiantly silent.

"Ah." He glanced up in time to see McGonagall stare at him from over the rim of her glasses. "So you were aware that this volume mentioned the particular geas that binds you. I assume that was what you were looking for?"

"I..." He trailed off, staring at McGonagall's pointed shoes. He wanted to beg, but didn't think it would do any good; McGonagall was bound by law to report him to his master. But out of habit and desperation, he pulled his knees under him and pressed his forehead into the soft carpet. If nothing else, it hid the fear that he could feel twisting his features.

"Severus..." He felt a hand on his shoulder and flinched, but didn't try to crawl away. "There's no need for this."

Because she was going to be merciful and punish him herself or because it wouldn't do him any good anyway?

"Come now, sit up. I'll get you some tea." She pushed on his shoulder, half-forcing him back into a sitting position. From there, she guided him up and over to the over-stuffed chair she conjured to stand in front of her desk. She poured two cups of tea and took her own seat across from him. Snape curled himself up in the chair, ignoring the proffered cup.

"Severus...there's no need to be so upset. What's wrong?"

Snape opened his mouth to explain, but couldn't think of anything that wouldn't sound ridiculous and melodramatic. He wasn't sure that when he said 'flayed alive' that McGonagall would understand that he wasn't speaking metaphorically.

"Surely you don't think James would hurt you for borrowing a forbidden book, not after all the after-hours reading he's done in the library."

"Not for that, no. But I..." He licked his lips, determined to explain. McGonagall did look concerned, enough, perhaps, that she might give him some punishment of her own rather than handing him over to his master, if she understood what would happen to him when that happened. "The book might...if I removed the geas, I could..." He licked his lips. "Masters tend to take exception to their property thinking about running off."

"I see." McGonagall was quiet a moment. "I still believe you have less to fear than you think. But there is no reason James needs to be told, though I don't suppose I'll be able to trust you alone in my office in the future."

"I—" It was far more mercy than he had been expecting. "Thank you."

"I do understand your reasons. I imagine you've had a difficult time of it, these last five years." Something had softened on her severe, sharp-featured face. McGonagall looked almost sad, pained.

Without understanding why, he said, "It's been easier since Lucius left. And Hogwarts has always been...safer." Than what, he didn't expect he needed to clarify.

McGonagall stared at him, then nodded. "Thank you, Severus. Please, drink your tea."

Hesitantly, Snape reached for the cup and sipped it. It was warm, which was nice, and the house-elves had put enough milk and honey in it to mask the bitter taste.

"You understand that Tragen only wrote about theory. She was quite brilliant, but given the circumstances she could do very little in the way of practical experiments."

What was McGonagall going on about? On any other day, he might have been interested, but he was too worn out from the fear and confusion that had made him feel as if he had been riding a mad, panicked Thestral for the last few days. And months.

"One area she researched was dark curses that bonded to their victim in such a way that they could never be removed. Your geas falls into that category."

Snape stared, deathly quiet. Was McGonagall really going to tell him how to break the geas? Was it a test? Was he supposed to shake his head and refuse to listen to the one chance at freedom he might ever get?

"She believed that, because the victim needed the bond to survive, the only way to free him was to transfigure the curse, leaving the base magic the same but changing the parameters."

That made sense, in a brilliantly simplistic way. He found himself asking, despite his fears, "Was it ever tested?"

McGonagall nodded, setting her tea down on the desk. "I believe so, but it was never written in any text I have read. You must understand, the type of geas that binds you requires the sacrifice of innocence in order to form. That's why it must be done within a few hours of birth, the time when a person's soul is purest. It is also why adults cannot be made into slaves." She paused, giving him a look that might have been pity. "To transfigure that bond you would need to make a sacrifice of innocence that would equal what was taken from you as an infant."

Snape looked away, eyes shifting over the rows of books lining the wall. After fifteen years with Lucius, there was little chance he had any innocence left to sacrifice. He rubbed his eyes, too tired and defeated even to try and hide his emotions from the professor.

"Severus, I am sorry. Even if the sacrifice was made, altering the geas would likely take more skill than any wizard living has."

"I—thank you, Professor. For telling me. And for letting me..." he nodded to the pile of books that still lay on the floor. He wished now he'd read them instead, since McGonagall had already told him he wouldn't get another chance.

"Of course. You're in my house, now, after all. You are welcome to come to me whenever you feel the need."

Snape glanced up, uncertain of what that meant. "I—I'd better go, or I'll be late for potions."

McGonagall nodded and he made his way down to the dungeons.

---

Standing down the hall from the potions lab, Snape scrubbed his face with his palms and tried to order his mind. Too much had happened—and not happened—in the last twenty-four hours and he didn't know how to make sense of it. He wasn't sure who was hurting his head more—Potter or Lupin or McGonagall.

Snape waited until he saw the last of the golden bunch scramble into the lab before entering himself. He had never taken a class with his master before so he didn't know the etiquette. He hoped that he would be able to guess Potter's wishes once he saw how he was seated, or at the very least remain unnoticed.

When he walked in, he was surprised to find the quadruplets split, with Black and Pettigrew at the far back corner of Gryffindor territory. Potter and Lupin sat near the front of the room and as far from Black and Pettigrew as they could manage. There was an empty seat in the table next to him, but Snape wasn't sure if he was expected to sit there or not. He stared, hoping Potter would be uncharacteristically merciful and just give him some direction.

Of course, none was forthcoming, so he held his breath and took a seat in the back row, as far from Potter and Black as he could get, without joining the Slytherins. He didn't particularly wish to sit next to Lucius's former house mates, who would likely consider him fair game now that he was no longer Malfoy property.

Slughorn stood at the front of the class and twirled his wand. "Good morning, class. The potion of the day is Succurri Salve. Now then, who can tell me what it is used for?"

Out of long practice, Snape had his hand up before the question was even completed. However, this time Slughorn's eyes ignored him and roved the pool of sheepish students, until he spotted Aaron Longbeak tentatively poking his fingers into the air.

"Very good, Longbeak!" Slughorn pointed his wand in Aaron's direction, which made the boy flinch back with a worried frown. "What can you tell us about he potion we will be making today?"

"Well, sir. Uh, it's a healing potion. You put it on your skin and it, uh, heals you."

"Yes. Well, is there anyone else who knows the properties of Succurri?"

Snape felt his fingertips begin to go numb, but he kept his arm raised.

"James Potter, I believe your father was one of the co-inventors of this potion. Surely you can tell us a bit about it."

Potter leaned back, flicking his hair out of the way. "Well, sir, I wasn't quite born when he invented it, you see."

"But surely he must have discussed his work with you, his only son."

"No, not really."

"Ah. Well, then. This is a mite disappointing. Miss Evans, I see you flipping through your book. What can you tell us about this potion?"

Snape finally lowered his arm, tucking it close to his chest.

Evans, who was sitting just a few seats in front of him, looked up from her book, then closed it carefully. "It's a healing salve—salve because it's applied topically. It's used as a base in a lot of more advanced healing potions, but on its own it's a good anesthetic and will heal injuries from the inside out, which makes it popular with certain Quidditch players."

"Hm, I hadn't heard that. Do you know why?"

"If you apply it properly, it will heal the bulk of an injury and numb any pain, but the bruise or bump will still look like it's there. Quidditch players seem to think that this makes them look heroic and manly." She cast an unsubtle eye in Potter's direction.

Snape, despite himself, could feel the corners of his mouth twitching upwards. In another world, he thought he might have genuinely liked Evans.

Slughorn also seemed amused, clearing his throat of what sounded like a muffled chuckle. "Well...that's an—" He cleared his throat again, hiding his mouth with a pudgy hand, " --interesting point of view. In any case, excellent explanation. Five points to Gryffindor. And, now, open your books to page twenty-six. You will find the directions there. Please let me know if you need any assistance."

Snape had no book, but he hardly needed one for this potion. He had made it frequently over the last six years, in whatever hidden alcove Dobby or Elby managed to secrete him into. He had brewed this potion with a fractured arm and a concussion in near-pitch dark with the cobbled together ingredients his house-elves had managed to scrounge for him.

He laid his supplies on the table. This morning, he had reached into his robe pocket to find a small cloth bundle. Inside, he had recognized the ingredients he would need for precisely this potion. He had studiously not thought about how that had come about, but a little of the pressure on his chest eased. At the least, the house-elves would keep him from failing for lack of materials.

They were excellent materials too—pure, fresh and of the extremely potent variety. It wasn't until Snape was carefully sorting them, delicately grinding the salamander droppings and peppermint and crushing the yew seeds that he noticed the odd nature of the two feathers. They were deeply orange, almost red, and had a shimmer to them, even in the dim light. It took only a moment to recognize where they had come from. A phoenix. The down feather of a phoenix.

He almost tossed them into the fire under his cauldron. Phoenix feathers were extraordinarily rare and powerful. If he was caught with them, he would be accused of stealing, and the punishment for stealing something of such value would be severe. Snape didn't even want to consider how the house elves had gotten hold of them.

He hesitated in destroying them, however. He would probably be a potions master before he handled ingredients like these again, and he did not want to waste this opportunity. If the potion was brewed very carefully, Snape could have a supply of healing salve so powerful that it would easily last him for months, no matter what Potter chose to do to him.

Well, he had not survived so long by being timid. Snape adjusted his cauldron and began the potion. Stirring constantly and tapping his foot to time himself he began adding half the yew seeds, half the peppermint and half the salamander droppings. Swept up in the rhythm of potion making, he added the first phoenix feather without missing a beat. He did almost pause, though, when the surface of the potion flashed orange, then settled into an enchanting emerald shimmer. That had never happened before, but it was beautiful.

He was going to have to fail this assignment, he realized. Slughorn would recognize immediately that the potion was far too powerful from the ingredients that would be provided to him. Oh well. He could bottle most of it, then add some sort of impurity—a strand of his hair would do—that would force Slughorn to Evanesco it.

He began to add the second half of each ingredient in the same order, watching the potion shimmer brighter with each addition. He reached down to find the last phoenix feather to complete the matrix, but his hand found only the flat, dusty surface of the desk. He looked around, but could find no trace of the second feather.

He felt along the surface of the desk, then the floor below it. This was ridiculous. He was in a dungeon; there was no draft strong enough to move even a feather much farther than a few inches.

He peaked back into the cauldron, which was beginning to boil. He wanted to turn down the heat, but without a wand he couldn't manipulate the flame, couldn't even turn it off once it had been lit. He watched the shimmering emerald surface begin to darken.

He dropped back to his hands and knees and, crawling under the table, he looked around frantically for the feather. No trace. He chewed his lip in frustration.

Something caught his attention from the corner of his eye. A long, impossibly thin snake flicked its tail at him, then turned its head just long enough for Snape to make out an orange feather.

The snake slithered into the waiting hand of Evan Rosier, sitting a few seats over, who plucked the feather from his fangs. He leaned down so he could look at Snape, crouched under the table, and gave him a leering grin.

"No," Snape hissed, "You idiot, I need that to complete the potion. You have no idea what will happen if—No!"

He watched helplessly as Evan dropped the feather into the fire. It flared a brilliant orange for a moment, then disappeared.

Snape swore to himself. He turned and saw his own cauldron rocking back and forth, nearly tipping itself over. In a few seconds, Snape guessed the potion would either spill itself onto the floor or explode within the cauldron, spraying scalding sludge and twisted bits of cauldron ricocheting through the classroom.

It wouldn't be the first time someone had done it, but it would be the first time for him. And the last, because Potter would have him stripped and sent back to his dungeon before he could even start picking the cauldron pieces from his skin.

Biting his lip, he crawled out from under the table and, bracing his right hand on the floor, reached underneath the cauldron, throwing his hand into the flame. He bit his tongue bloody trying to hold onto his cry of pain as his flesh was seared, but the flame died quickly as the safety spells recognized a human hand.

Reflexive tears blurred his vision and he wiped them away with his good hand, trying to check on the contents of the cauldron. For a moment, it seemed to settle down, congealing into a black sludge. He sat back on his heels and cradled his burned hand, trying to breath through the tightness in his throat.

He had hoped, when he had found the potion ingredients in his pocket this morning, for a chance to ease his own coming pain. Now it seemed to have gone the way of most of his hopes, lately.

Then he noticed something odd. Bubbles began rising again from the black sludge and Snape felt his stomach tighten. The little bubbles intensified and the cauldron began to vibrate with their force.

There was truly no mercy in the universe, not for him.

He scrambled to his feet and ran to Slughorn, who was peering intently into Lily's cauldron. "Professor Slughorn, there's—"

Slughorn rounded on him, fleshy nostrils quivering. "Mind yourself, boy. You have no business speaking to me that way."

"But sir—"

"I'm working with a student, slave. Go back to your cauldron and finish the potion or I'll have you out of this classroom."

Snape stared at him, stunned. Slughorn had known he was Malfoy's slave, but he had never treated him like this before. "But, sir, my cauldron—"

"It is the school's cauldron. And I'll give you one last warning—"

"It's about to explode!"

"Then Evanesco it. You know the spell." Slughorn turned back to Lily, who stared at him as if she had just seen a unicorn murdered.

Snape turned back to his cauldron and saw the bubbles erupting over the edge and splattering dark sludge on the stone floor. He felt as if the sludge had found its way into his belly, twisting and burning his insides. He'd just gotten this chance to have a life, and now he would lose it because of his own greed and Rosier's cruelty.

He approached the cauldron, hoping that if he got close enough the explosion would kill him or damage him badly enough that Potter would just let him die. About ten paces away, his feet froze, as if they had been Obrigesco'd to the floor. Of course, the geas wouldn't let him kill himself.

Snape closed his eyes, awaiting the explosion.

"EVANESCO!" someone shouted behind him. The potion vanished, leaving only a thin, black line of smoke hanging in the air.

Snape spun around and found Lily standing with her wand out, her lips compressed into a thin line. Snape stared at her, but she did not meet his eyes.

"Well," Slughorn muttered shakily, "Good thinking Miss Evans. Well done. Five points."

Lily said nothing, merely shoved her books into her bag and extinguished the fire beneath her potion. Without a word to anyone, she stormed out of the classroom.

"Ah, yes," Slughorn said, trying to regain control, "You should be just about done. When you've finished, please feel free to...leave."

The quiet Snape hadn't even noticed quickly began to fill with the usual chattering buzz, albeit somewhat more excited.

Briefly, Snape wondered what the rumors would say. He would never find out; by tonight he would either be dead or in a cell at Potter Manor, wishing he were. He had just proven himself incompetent and untrustworthy, not qualities that a master might abide in a Potion Master slave.

Without waiting to be dismissed, slipped out of the classroom and ran down the hall. He kept running, even though his lungs burned and his legs trembled and almost buckled with every step. He didn't stop until he fell down on his side behind his boulder by the lake, coughing and wheezing and for a few blissful seconds focused only on getting air into his collapsing lungs.

When he could move, he merely pulled his legs up, burying his face in his bony, shaking knees.

---

James paged idly through his potions notebook, waiting for the classroom to empty. Remus hovered by the door, staring at him, but thankfully Sirius and Peter filed out with the rest of the class. He wasn't sure he could explain to them why he was doing what he was about to do.

Stalling wasn't making it any easier, so he approached Slughorn, who was at his desk, arranging the green bottles of all different shades he had collected from the class into some mysterious order.

"Professor?"

"James, my boy!" Slughorn sat back, grinning up at him as if he hadn't almost allowed a cauldron to explode in the middle of his class. "What can I do for you? I have your sample right here, shall we test it together?" He held a bottle of pale green potion up to the light of a candle.

"No, that won't be necessary." James took a breath and grabbed the hippogriff by the horns. "Is there any reason you didn't help Snape with his potion before he nearly blew up the potions lab?"

Slughorn lowered the potion. "Mr. Potter, if you hadn't felt the need to bring an unprepared slave into an advanced potion making classroom, the situation would never have arisen."

"Headmaster Dumbledore told me that there was no rule against it."

"That does not make it proper or appropriate. James, you must understand that a slave in a situation like this is...an eyesore, a blemish on what would otherwise be a fine class of burgeoning young wizards."

"Snape is a wizard."

"No, Snape is a slave and thus an eyesore—in more ways than one." Slughorn offered James something that might have been a conspiratorial wink.

James found himself balling his fists in his pockets. Slughorn had always rubbed a nerve in him, and the ingratiating gesture made him feel nauseous. "You were alright with him before. And you must have known. You're head of Slytherin."

Slughorn went red and suddenly James felt icy cold all over. He had no doubt that Malfoy would have hurt Snape at every opportunity, but he never thought that a professor would know about it and allow it to happen here, at Hogwarts. But Slughorn's reaction was telling him that he had known, and that he'd done nothing.

"Why? How could you let that happen here?"

Slughorn slumped against his desk. "James... What could I do?"

"Stop them! Professor McGonagall would never let us do anything like that." He didn't know what 'that' was, exactly, but if he couldn't flush a ghost down a toilet, he certainly couldn't torture a living person just for kicks.

Slughorn shook his head slowly. "You don't understand. Lucius Malfoy and his father...you would not cross them, not on behalf of a slave. Anyway, I had no grounds; Snape was their property."

So that was it. That was the angle he needed to stop treating Snape like something slimy and nasty that should be in a sealed ingredients jar on a shelf. James felt something squirming uncomfortably in his belly at the thought that he was about to do more or less exactly what Lucius must have done. "You don't think that there is a reason Snape is here? You know who my father is. He wants Snape to receive the best instruction available, but if you don't think you're capable of delivering that..." He let his sentence trail off ominously, though the truth was he couldn't come up with any credible threats. He had no idea what his father could do against Slughorn, though being the best Potion Master in Britain had to count for something.

Slughorn seemed to think so because he blanched, staring at James in horror, almost like the look he'd seen on Madam Pomfrey's face when he'd seen Snape's back. It was clear that Slughorn had his own priorities. The man's blubberous face contorted through several different expressions, making him look as if his Polyjuice had just worn off.

Finally, he settled on a sickly, grimacing smile. "I see. Well, certainly Snape has promise. And if Benjamin Potter wants him trained, I suppose it's the least I can do. Every great inventor needs competent help, after all..."

"I really wouldn't know."

"Right." Slughorn twitched with the effort to maintain his smile. "Move along, then. And tell your—boy—to talk to me about remedial lessons after class on Thursday."

"Yes, sir." James collected Remus and escaped into the hallway, finally allowing himself a nice, long shudder.

Remus looked on sympathetically. "That bad?"

James shrugged. "You were there."

"But I didn't have to talk to him." Remus gave his own theatrical shudder.

"He isn't that bad, it's just that—"

"Most invertebrates have more backbone than him?"

James snorted before he started walking down the hall. "Invertebrates, hell. The house-elves chocolate pudding has more spine than that man. I can't believe that he let Malfoy do...that."

Remus ran his hand through his shaggy brown hair. "You really ought to talk to Snape about what 'that' is."

"I can't imagine he wants to talk about it anymore than I want to hear about it."

"Sirius was right."

That stopped James in his tracks. "What?"

Remus shifted his gaze to stare at something past his head. "Sirius was right. Snape really does think you're going to...hurt him."

"Oh. That's not...I mean, what am I supposed to do about that?"

Remus said quietly, "Does that phrase sound at all familiar?"

James started to shake his head, but then Slughorn's words rose in his mind. What could I do? "I'll talk to him, alright? Just as soon as I figure out what to say. Unless you have any brilliant ideas."

Remus grinned and slapped him on the shoulder, then turned on a heel to face the corner they were approaching. "Ho, James. You have a damsel in distress at ten o'clock."

Sure enough, as they rounded the corner, James caught sight of Lily Evans, sprawled awkwardly on the stone floor, quills and books and parchment scattered around her. As he watched, she rolled with endearing gracelessness to her knees and began to gather her things.

A spotty third year was already rushing over to help. A quick flick of his wand and the boy's shoelaces sprang loose and knotted together. The third year tumbled forward and rolled conveniently out of sight behind a suite of armor.

James strolled up, gathering spilled parchment, quills and notebooks as he approached. He knelt down and held the items out to her like an offering. Lily quickly started stuffing them in her bag, turning toward him with an embarrassed half-smile. Her expression faltered when she realized who was helping her. Hastily, she closed her bag and stood up.

"All you alright?" James asked when it looked like she was about to bolt.

"I'm fine. I must have tripped." She started walking.

James jogged a pace to keep up. "That fellow over there did as well," he said, gesturing to the third year who was perched on the armor's pedestal, struggling with his laces. "Filch must have over-waxed again. So are you going to lunch?"

Lily nodded, looking ahead.

"Can I come with you?"

She hesitated. "That was awful, what happened to Snape." She sent him a challenging look.

James was caught off-guard by the change of subject. Did everything have to come back to Snape? Still, he felt about a foot taller as he remembered his conversation with Slughorn. "I know," he said, trying not to let his chest puff out too much, "I talked to Slughorn; it won't happen again. He said he'd treat Snape like a student."

Lily stopped and looked up at him, her green eyes full of an expression he couldn't recognize. It wasn't anger or disgust, so he must be moving up on the ladder.

"So," he said, having no need to fake nervousness, "have you made up your mind about Hogsmeade?"

"Potter, you just asked me out six hours ago."

"Well, I've made up my mind."

"Of course, you were the one that asked me." She was shaking her head, but James could see her reluctant smile. She rolled her eyes. "Yes. I'll go."

"To Hogsmeade?"

"To lunch." James felt his face fall, but Lily continued. "And maybe Hogsmeade."

"Maybe, I can do maybe."

"So I've noticed."

---

Snape stayed curled under his grey rock until well after the sun had fallen past the mountains. It wasn't as if coming in late was going to make much of a difference.

Eight years. He'd been brewing potions for eight years and he'd never come so close to blowing up a lab as he had today. If he'd still belonged to the Malfoys there was the slightest chance that Caligulus might recognize the incident as an aberration in a long line of successful potions and let him off with a weekend of harsh discipline.

But this was the first potion Potter had seen him brew as his slave and he was less likely to be so forbearing. It wasn't likely that the son of Benjamin Potter would be as desperate for a Potions Master as the Dark Lord had been.

If Potter was truly merciful, or at least less patient than Lucius, he would be dead before the sun rose again. If Potter chose as Lucius had, Snape would returned to the same hell he had left behind only a few days ago. The thought made his belly twist and his throat tighten. The last months had come so close to killing him, to breaking him into something weak and crawling and hopeless. That had been Lucius's intention, of course. Destroy the soul and break the mind long before the body drew its last breath.

He had made Snape cry for death, but stay awake for days waiting for the meal of rotten apples and mouldy bread because he would only be fed if he was awake, and he never knew when the food would be sent. He had debased himself for healing potions he knew only prolonged the torture but eased his pain for a few brief moments.

He had come so close to breaking, so close to letting go of the last thread of defiant sanity that clung to his bones. It was so tempting just drift away and let his body obey Lucius's obscene demands and take his brutal abuse and give up on the sad, pathetic entity that was Severus Snape. He sometimes wondered if he was already broken and just hadn't realized it yet.

Maybe he should have given in. Lucius would have killed him once he was no longer interesting, and he would not have to suffer the pain all over again to slake his new master's blood lust.

The insane urge to scream with fear and desperation became unbearable. He shoved his hand in his mouth to keep silent, biting down hard and tasting blood.

With the suddenness of a snakebite, the world began to shrink. The grass, the grey boulder, even the air, began to press closer, crushing the air out of him. He felt his own warm blood began to choke him and struggled, trying to pull his and away from his mouth, but he couldn't remember how to make his lungs work and his body move. His vision began to blur and Snape struggled desperately to take a breath. His heart was beating so hard he was afraid it might break.

"Snape! Can you hear me? Snape!"

The voice twisted and echoed, but the vibrations of feet pounding shook his bones. He struggled to move his eyes towards the voice but he was falling, out of his body, out of his mind, towards a landing he couldn't see.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Yes, I'm long-winded. I just wanted to mention that the hospital wing is on the third for this chapter. JKR has it on both the first and third floor, so I just picked the one that worked best for this chapter.

* * *

Snape opened his eyes to find the friendly, round face of Madam Pomfrey filling his vision. He licked his dry lips and made a face when he tasted soil on them.

"Welcome back, Mr. Snape." With a hand on his shoulder, Madam Pomfrey guided him into a sitting position. She used the other arm to hand him a glass of water from the bedside table. It felt good, cool and soothing to his dry throat. When he finished drinking, he asked, "What happened?"

"You tell me. What do you remember?"

The potions classroom, the boulder by the lake, the sudden, inexplicable sense that the world was falling in on him. Snape felt the air squeeze out of his chest. He looked around the room until his eyes caught sight of Potter standing several paces away.

What was going on? Shouldn't he be dead by now, or naked in a cage awaiting Potter's echoing footsteps in the dungeons of Potter Manor? If the incident during Potions hadn't proved him worthless, then whatever had happened to him before he'd passed out must have.

So why was he still here?

"Mr. Snape, can you hear me?"

"Yes. Sorry." He rubbed his eyes with the palm of his good hand. "I was down by the lake. I think I was...upset. Then something happened and it felt like I couldn't breathe." He shifted around. His robes were damp with sweat, making him feel clammy and uncomfortable.

"Was there anyone around who could have hexed you?"

"I don't think so, but it wouldn't be the first time I failed to notice someone sneaking up on me." His eyes darted of their own will over to Potter, who glanced away. Odd. He was becoming more and more certain that this wasn't a game. If Potter had intended to dispose of him, he would almost certainly be gone by now; he doubted his new master had the patience for this sort of psychological torture.

Potter clinched it when he stepped forward and asked, "Could someone have hexed him without him knowing?"

"It's possible," answered Madam Pomfrey, "but I don't think so. Those kinds of spells are far too advanced for most of the students here."

Snape jerked his head round to face Madam Pomfrey. That wasn't what he needed Potter to hear. That wasn't what he needed to hear himself. But he didn't dare interrupt.

"What does that mean? If it wasn't a spell, what was it? A potion?"

Madam Pomfrey glanced at Snape, before turning back to Potter. "This type of...seizure...is not entirely unusual in those who have suffered through...difficult circumstances. It seems more likely a malady of the mind."

"You mean he's crazy?" Potter backed up a step. Snape winced.

"No, of course not."

"Well, does that mean you can fix it?"

"James, you do realize that not everything can be fixed with Skele-Gro and Spellotape. She sighed, smoothing her white apron with both hands. "I'll examine him. It would be best if I could keep him overnight."

"Uh, okay. Really, do you think you can help him?" Potter looked convincingly concerned. Snape decided he would think about that later.

"That will be mostly up to him." Madam Pomfrey glanced back at him. Snape stared at her, wishing Potter was gone so that he could ask her what the hell that meant. She must have read the expression on his face, because the next thing she said was, "I'll need to do a more thorough examination, now. Why don't you look in on Mr. Black? He was looking a bit green a moment ago."

"All right." Potter cast one more long, curious look at Snape before walking back out.

Once the door was closed, he asked the first of the many questions floating around in his mind. "What was Black doing here?"

"Escorting you up. Can you stand?" She held his shoulders steady as he put his shoes on the tiles. Shoes? Normally those were the first thing to come off in the hospital wing. He must not have been here long.

"How long was I out? And what do you mean, escorting me?" Black would as soon spit on him as walk with him anywhere, he was sure.

"You were unconscious only a few minutes, according to Mr. Potter." She helped him slide his robe off his shoulders, though he knew he could do it himself. It was a secret pleasure of his, letting her coddle him. He could stand her touch because it wasn't personal; touch was part of her job and required nothing from him. But she was so careful when doing it, and she didn't have to be.

When he was standing in nothing but frayed pants, Madam Pomfrey used her wand to weave diagnostic spells while she talked. "Mr. Potter found you after Quidditch practice. He said you seemed to be convulsing, and then you passed out. He got Mr. Black to watch you while he got on his broom and flew up to my office window. When he knocked, I dropped about half my supply of Stomach Settling Solution."

Snape shook his head. "He did what?"

"He flew right up to my window and knocked. Put that eyebrow back down, young man."

"I—he wouldn't do that." But Madam Pomfrey didn't seem to be lying. And Potter had seemed concerned. But this didn't make any sense; one just didn't do that for slaves.

"He was scared half to death. I believe he thought you were dying."

It still didn't make any sense, but at least now he could be mostly certain that Potter didn't want him dead. The rest he could puzzle out later.

Madam Pomfrey frowned as the thin blue mist she had conjured with her wand curled around his burned hand. She tugged on his forearm to get him to raise it up. "What happened here?"

"I burned it."

"Yes, I can see that." She studied the burn a moment longer, and then let his hand fall back to his side. She helped him pull his robes on, taking care with his injured hand. "Go ahead and button up your robe. I'll be back in a moment."

Snape did up the buttons with one hand—a task made easier by the several buttons that were missing. The burn, which until now he had nearly forgotten about, had started to ache and sting once Pomfrey had brought his attention to it.

She came back with a jar of mint colored paste, with the label Burn Better affixed to its side, and a glass bottle of deep purple liquid. She spread the salve over the raw skin, avoiding the blisters. For that, she swabbed a few drops of the purple liquid onto the boiled flesh. A cool, mild tingling feeling made its way up his arm.

"There. Does that feel better?"

"I think so." It did. Of course it did, he recognized both potions were Succurri-based, with certain properties emphasized. The batch Evans had Evenesco'd would have healed him twice as quickly with half the amount. And it would have been his.

Inexplicably, his eyes began to prickle and the hand in Madam Pomfrey's began to shake. He tried to pull it back, but the nurse held on, tugging him forward. She cupped the back of his head in her hand and guided it down to her shoulder, using her other hand to try to pull him into a hug.

It was too much, her body too close to his. He felt panic rising, choking him. He shoved her back with both hands, smearing green paste on her white apron. She stumbled back, looking surprised.

Her image blurred and Snape shut his eyes to keep in the moisture. He fell back onto the bed, curling in on himself.

"Severus?" The voice faltered.

Snape kept his eyes shut tight. "I'm sorry." His voice was hoarse and choked. "I'm sorry."

"Hush." Madam Pomfrey's voice had regained its usually even, firm quality. "May I touch you at all?"

Snape couldn't trust his voice, but he shook his head. The thought of any hands on him made him want to vomit. He didn't understand, but was grateful when she only backed up a pace and didn't leave him completely.

Maybe Potter was right. Maybe he was going mad.

He felt his body convulse with dry sobs until his stomach was sore and his chest ached, but he didn't want to stop because the action somehow eased a less physical pain that he had carried with him for all the life he could remember.

---

James paused outside the greenhouse door, listening. He heard a yelp, a series of thumps and a string of words that guaranteed Professor Sprout was nowhere in the vicinity or Sirius would have had his detention doubled.

Wand out, body turned sideways to minimize the target, James inched his way in.

Sirius was hanging half upside down, one leg hoisted up by what looked like an adolescent stalk of Devil's Snare that was wrapped around his ankle. A vine from a baby snare had captured his left wrist and pinned it to the table leg. Sirius's wand was sticking up in a mound of potting soil that had spilled from its sack.

Sirius's free arm reached out to snatch it, but a Fanged Geranium, apparently displeased at having had half a sack of compost dumped on top of it, snapped at his hand and nearly took off a piece of Sirius's thumb. Another string of impolite words flew from his mouth.

"Pads. Need a hand?"

Sirius turned to him. He was a sight; face streaked with dirt, hair tangled up with twigs and rotten leaves. Sweat left pale streaks across his face, through the grime. James shrugged off his outer robe. This was the hottest and most humid of the greenhouses. No wonder the Devil's Snare wasn't happy.

Sirius continued to stare at him. James stared back.

"Well get off your arse and get me down from here!" Sirius finally shouted. He thrashed harder, causing the Devil's Snare to coil more tightly around his wrist and ankle.

After putting up with Sirius's childish behavior the last few weeks, this opportunity was just too good to let it pass buy, as a better man might have. "Well now, that was rather rude. What do you say, Sirius? Help me down, what?"

"Help me down, wanker!"

"Tsk, tsk. What would your mother say?" James affected a stern look. "She was much more inventive the last time we met."

James was expecting anger, but something shifted in Sirius's expression, and suddenly James was reminded of the playful, prank-ready best friend he'd had last year. Crossing his free ankle over his captured leg and pillowing his free arm under his head, Sirius managed to create the impression that being held mostly upside down by vindictive shrubbery was something only brilliant and attractive Quidditch heroes were privileged to experience. "She called you the same thing she calls everyone that comes into her house she doesn't approve of. She came up with 'blood-blind, foul-breed bottom-feeder' decades ago and never sat down to think of something more original."

"Ah. And I was so impressed."

"You turned redder than a blood melon."

"I was young, and my ears delicate and virginal."

Sirius scoffed and rolled his eyes. "So? Are you going to get me down?"

"Er." James eyed a row of Devil's Snare cuttings scattered like Muggle land mines about the floor between Sirius and himself. "Remember last year when we were following Mooney through the forest on some mad Snidget hunt and my antlers got caught in some branches so Peter stayed behind to help me?"

"It wasn't branches, it was Devil's Snare. You dangled from your antlers until Peter got you down."

"That rat! He swore not to tell. And anyway, all he did was cast a severing charm on my hair, once I realized that I didn't have antlers as a human."

Sirius moaned theatrically and banged his head against the earth-covered floor. "I'm an idiot."

In a blink, Sirius had turned into Padfoot and, taking advantage of Padfoot's smaller ratio between ankle and foot, twisted out of the trap and landed inelegantly on his side on the dirty floor. Springing to his feet, he turned and growled at the vines, which were lashing back and forth, looking for their escaped victim.

Sirius was too busy barking and James too busy laughing to hear the greenhouse door opening again. "James Potter! What on earth are you doing with a dog in the greenhouse? And where is your miscreant friend?"

---

After a few long minutes, Snape tried to force his breath and body to relax. At first, his body shuddered, chest hiccupping with gasps, as if fighting to continue this painful fit, but he refused to let it. He managed to take a few deep breaths and forced his drawn lips to mouth all the ingredients for a calming draught, in order. It worked, and in a few minutes he was able to sit up and wipe his face with his good hand. His nose was running, but at least his eyes were mostly dry.

Madam Pomfrey sat down in the chair by his bed and handed him a cool, damp towel. It felt good against the hot skin of his face. He must be as red as one of those giant tomatoes Sprout grew in greenhouse two.

"Feel better?" Pomfrey asked, again.

"A little," Snape lied, and tried to smile. He still felt as if he was balancing on the knife edge of hysteria, but he wouldn't let himself cry again.

Pomfrey shook her head. "I know it might not feel like it right now, but, I promise you, things can get better."

Snape suddenly felt the bubbling hysteria shift to boiling anger. "No, they can't."

"Yes, they can. Severus—"

"Don't call me that. That isn't my name. Calligulus just needed a first name for the school paperwork. I don't even have a bloody name."

Madam Pomfrey was silent for a blessed few seconds. Then she spoke again. "I'm so sorry, child. But you have to understand, you are not the only person to feel like this. There are others—"

Snape growled through his teeth. "No _person_ feels like this. I am not a person. I am a slave. And I'm going mad. And you have absolutely no idea."

"My brother was a prisoner of Grindelwald for eight years. Do you think that he was treated to caviar and silk sheets?"

Snape opened his mouth to reply, but couldn't. Instead, he glared.

Madam Pomfrey sighed. "You aren't ready to hear this, are you? Just know this, child. You're not going mad. I took care of Frederick for a year after we got him back. He had the same fits, the same feeling that something was gone from him that he could never get back. But it didn't last forever."

"It ended for him," Snape ground out. "It will never end for me. I will always be a slave. And I doubt Potter or his father will be so understanding about my 'fits' as you were for your dear brother."

Madam Pomfrey quirked a tiny, ironic smile. "You'd be surprised. Half of those years, Benjamin Potter was in the cell next to my brother's."

Snape twisted his lips into a sneer. "Is that supposed to be some great comfort? All that means to me is that Potter's father will be that much better at hurting. Empathy is not a word that applies to slaves. Neither is compassion"

Pomfrey was silent for a moment. Then she stood up. "I'm sorry. I should never have let you get so upset."

Snape swallowed. He should probably tell her it was all right, that he understood. But, bloody hell, it wasn't, and he didn't. He hated having to say those awful truths, hated having to think about what he was and what had been done to him. And he hated arguing with Madam Pomfrey because she was the only person who could touch him and bring comfort with her touch. She was the only person who treated him like a real child, like a freeborn. Hell, she was the only person who would ever tolerate the way he had been speaking to her, slave or no slave. He didn't want to lose that.

"It's all right," he choked, "I understand."

Madam Pomfrey gave him a sad smile. "It's not all right, but I do understand. More than you know.

Snape bit his tongue, knowing that anything he said would only make the situation worse. He just wanted this conversation to end.

"You should rest. Will you be able to sleep?"

Snape winced. "I need dreamless sleep." He desperately wanted the sanctuary of sleep, but there would be no sanctuary if he was allowed to dream, not after this conversation.

Pomfrey pursed her lips. "A half dose. You need to dream, child, or you'll feel just as awful in the morning."

"I'll feel awful in the morning, anyway."

"I'll stay with you. If you have a nightmare, I'll wake you up."

"What?" He didn't think it would work, but the offer itself surprised him. "Don't you need to sleep?"

Pomfrey gave him another small smile. "Not half as much as you, dear. I'll put some monitoring spells on you and work in my office, if that's all right."

Against his better judgment, Snape nodded. It was probably the best offer he would get, even if Pomfrey didn't stay the whole night.

Pomfrey left and came back with clear phial half filled with a thick, blue fluid and a glass of pumpkin juice. Snape got comfortable under the white sheets and lifted the phial to his lips. He drained it in one swallow, and even managed a few sips of pumpkin juice before his eyes drifted shut and the world faded out around him.

---

"Well?" Madam Sprout glared at him, hands on her hips and plump arms akimbo. The normally cheerful professor was giving him a look that said he had better thing of a good explanation soon, if he ever wanted to leave the greenhouses for something other than classes or meals this term.

"Er." James glanced at Sirius, who was lying on his belly, head on his paws and endeavoring to look as cute as caninely possible. "He's one of Hagrid's, I think."

"Yes, well, what is he doing here?" She turned her glare on Sirius, who rolled onto his back, exposing the white streak on his belly, and kicked his legs in the air like a puppy.

"He, uh, must have sneaked in. He's clever...for a dog."

Sirius let out a sharp bark, hearing that.

"I see. Are you sure he's pure dog? He's larger than normal, I think."

Sirius yipped at that, then sneezed so hard he convulsed. Madam Sprout settled back on her heels, hackles almost visibly settling down. Not surprising--even James was tempted to go over and scratch his best friend's belly.

"Well, I did have to ask, particularly with Hagrid and his...mongrel." Madam Sprout looked back at James and tapped her foot on the soil-covered stone. "So, did this mongrel of Hagrid's sneak in while Mr. Black was, perhaps, sneaking out?"

"Um, no, of course not. He went to go get a...treat. To, you know, lure him out. He asked me to stay and make sure he didn't get hu—didn't hurt anything."

"Oh. Then well done, I suppose." Sprout checked out the rest of the greenhouse, examining the young Devil's Snare with a snort. She hummed until one of the vines drooped into her palm and she could stroke it. "Tell your friend that they're quite fond of The Slade. And do please clean up before you leave." Giving the vines one last stroke, she left.

Sirius kicked his legs in the air and wriggled. James rolled his eyes. "You might as well turn back now. I'm not scratching your belly."

With a huff Sirius rolled to his feet and flowed into his human form, showing off, as usual. He did smile when Sirius clapped him on the shoulder. "Quick talking."

He shrugged, but not enough to displace the hand. "Sprout is easy. Speaking of whom—what did you do to her that she's making you repot Devil's Snare?"

"I broke a Mandrake."

"You bro—you killed a Mandrake?"

"A baby mandrake, actually." Sirius had the sense to look sheepish.

James gave a low whistle. "Impressive. I would have thought that was a death sentence."

Sirius pointed towards the sinewy green vines, now draped limply around the table legs, dozing. "Yeah, I think that was the point."

James took a moment to reflect on the fact that not taking Herbology with Sirius had probably saved him many near-fatal detentions in the future. Then he reflected on the fact that he had not been assigned detention but was none the less standing in a cold, musty greenhouse with his best friend, trying to work up the courage to wrestle with the foliage that had several times tried to kill him.

Well, he had nothing better to do tonight. Except his homework. Or researching slavery. Or chewing the fat with Remus. Or playing chess in the clean, dry common room with Peter, instead of rolling in the dirt with Sirius.

"So," he began, turning to Sirius. "How well can you sing?"

---

As it turned out, Sirius could sing very well. And if the only songs he knew were not from the Odd Uncles and Loud Ladies, they would have been finished within the hour.

Instead, Sirius stood safely behind a bulwark of potting soil sacks, singing, while James tried to subtly unwrap the baby vines from the table leg as they twisted and bobbed to the melody of Sirius's voice and the rhythm of his hands slapping the top of the sacks. He'd had to become Prongs twice, and was worried that the vines were catching on.

He finally got the first vine untwisted, and immediately yanked it back from the table and seized it with both hands while Sirius dived on the pot, scooped most of the plant's roots out with his hands and plunged it into a new, larger pot.

Sirius counted, "One, two, THREE!" They both stumbled backwards. James slapped away the tip of the vine that reached out to seize his wrist. They waited until the plant gave up on finding something to strangle in the near future and straightened up in a passable imitation of a mundane plant.

James turned and stared at the remaining Devil's Snare. He collapsed on the pile of potting soil. Sirius fell beside him.

"I'm taking a break."

"I noticed. Me too." James let his head fall back onto the earth. He was going to have to shower tonight anyway.

They gasped in silence for a while. Sirius finally spoke. "So. How is he?"

James lifted his head long enough to give his best friend a good stare. "Do you mean Snape?"

Sirius folded his hands behind his head. "Yeah. Who do you think? Do we know anyone else that passed out on school grounds today?"

James let his head drop back onto the dirt. "I think Rosier might have wet himself when Snape's cauldron exploded. But, yeah, Snape's all right. Madam Pomfrey is keeping him tonight."

"Did he say who hexed him?"

"He doesn't think anyone did. Madam Pomfrey called it a 'malady of the mind'."

"You mean he's crazy?"

James turned to his side and started drawing patterns in the soil. "She doesn't think so. And he doesn't act crazy...most of the time."

"I don't know. Slaves...they're a strange lot, anyway. You should be careful around him."

"Well, I was going to cuddle up to him and spill all my deepest secrets in the dark of night, but I suppose I'll have to do it to Remus instead. At least he has nice hair."

Sirius gave a grunt. "So you're not going to...?"

James sat up straight. "Oh, Merlin choking on a snitch! Where did you even get that idea from? I don't like guys and, even if I did, there's Lily."

Sirius wriggled a bit. "Peter said that slaves can...do things through the geas. Make you want things you wouldn't normally. And this summer I saw something that bears it out."

James felt his eyebrows raise of their own accord, even though he could feel a shiver of unease down his back. "What exactly did you see?"

Sirius drew a circle in the dirt. Then drew a square around it. "It's family stuff."

"So? Your family stuff is always good for a laugh."

"Yeah, well, not this time." Sirius stood abruptly, raining potting soil down into James's lap.

After that, they worked in silence.

---

Four in the morning found Snape with his head buried in a pillow, hoping it would smother him. He'd slept half the night through, then spent the next four hours haunted by memories of the last few months in Lucius' care as well as the vague terror dreams that left him fast-breathed and shaky, but with no memory of why. Madam Pomfrey had kept her word and woken him every time his sleep became disturbed, but that didn't do anything to stop the nightmares, only to keep them from getting worse.

He was never more glad than when a house elf climbed up onto his bed with a breakfast tray. The sun wasn't even up yet, but he supposed Madam Pomfrey had finally given up on her fantasy of giving him a peaceful and undrugged sleep. Breakfast was good, at least.

Madam Pomfrey came in after he had finished and suggested a shower while she saw to his robes. Some of her hair had escaped its tight bun and her eyes had purple smudges under them. She smiled at him and patted his shoulder but Snape doubted that she would offer to stay up with him again.

They were both up early, so when Snape had finished with his shower, he offered to help her arrange her potions stores. Given his mental state he would probably just muck up his homework, but he didn't need to be awake to handle potions.

Madam Pomfrey accepted and he spent a quiet early morning cleaning, categorizing her potions stores. Just handling potions calmed him—numbed him, more like. That, and the limited amount of sleep he'd got and the rather embarrassing, but cathartic, outburst he'd experienced last night. He had the rather pleasant feeling that he was drifting along in his head, disconnected from the consequences of reality. This state of pleasant numbness must have caught up with him while he was dusting off a jar of pimple salve, because he remarked, "It's odd, isn't it? This is the most time I've spent in the hospital wing and the healthiest I've ever been."

He'd meant it as an offhand comment, but Madam Pomfrey gave him a horrified look before her features relaxed, probably by sheer force of will. "I'm so sorry, Sever—child."

Snape shrugged and ran a hand through his hair. "I didn't mean to say it like that. I can heal myself well enough. But you were right; Potter isn't like Lucius, is he? I don't know if he's better or worse yet, but he is different." He was either thicker and kinder than Snape had expected, or much cleverer and crueler than he had given him credit for. Given the trend his life had been following so far, he wasn't eager to find out which.

"I'm not sure whether to be worried or impressed by your attitude."

Snape opened an unlabeled jar and sniffed at the contents. "I don't have much of a choice, do I? I can't afford what happened last night; mad slaves are a liability." Belladonna extract. He recapped the jar and placed it on the high shelf. He took another from the bottom shelf and again opened it to examine the contents. "And you can call me by my name. Snape is the name of the estate my sire was from. Severus is the name Calligulus chose to put on the Hogwarts parchments, but that does make it my name, doesn't it? Unless Potter wants to change it—but masters don't name slaves once, let alone twice. So that's my name, isn't it? That's what was given to me; that's what I have to take." He wrenched the cap back on the jar and pressed his forehead into the middle shelf, forcing his mouth to stop running.

What was happening to him? He glanced at Madam Pomfrey from the corner of his eye. She was staring at him, deep grooves of concern lining her face. He needed to get control of himself. If this happened anywhere else, even outside the presence of his master's little club, he would be torn apart. Slaves didn't have allies or friends.

He took a gasping breath and shook his head, clearing it. Only half-joking, he asked, "Still think I'm not insane?"

Madam Pomfrey nodded. "You're as sane as anyone at this school."

"And a great comfort that is."

Madam Pomfrey ignored him. "You are resilient and determined. But you are upset and the things you have avoided thinking about are catching up with you. I think you'll eventually sort things out, if only because you are too intelligent to be killed, too stubborn to die and too proud to truly go mad."

Snape rubbed his dry eyes with the hand still holding the jar of foxweed paste. He wanted to shout at Madam Pomfrey that he had already gone mad once, and begged for death more times than he could count over the last few months. But what she had said was probably the most complimentary thing anyone had ever said about him, so instead he said nothing. For the moment, he was better off keeping his mouth shut given that it had got in the habit of running off on its own, lately.

By the time he finished cleaning and checking through the first shelf, he was nearly late for class. He gave a nod to Madam Pomfrey before he left, and then hurried towards the staircase.

By the middle landing, he was already gripping the rail and breathing hard. He paused, trying to shake off the feeling that the ancient stairwell was tilting sideways.

He had started to take a step down when his ankles snapped together as if he'd stepped into a snare-trap. He tumbled forwards, but his grip on the banister swung him into the railing. The invisible snare snapped up and jerked his legs into the air, over his head, over the railing. He flailed and managed to grab the banister with his other hand and look up into Rosier's smirking face. He held an enormous tome in his hand—an unprecedented sight—and his smirk grew to a grin as he brought the book down on Snape's hands, one at a time.

The impact on his knuckles forced his hands to open. Rosier swung the book at his face, but Snape was already spinning away, and the blow struck his shoulder, numbing his arm momentarily.

He flailed his arms out, desperate to catch onto something. Searching for a way to break his fall, he looked down, but to his dismay, the ground wasn't getting any closer. His arms pinwheeled, trying to find the thing that was keeping him from falling. But the air felt like air; there was nothing holding him up. His body was telling him that he should be falling, and also that he wasn't. Dizzy and sick, he managed only a half-strength glare for Rosier.

Rosier held up the heavy book, a few red smudges from Snape's blood staining the title, Hogwarts, a History. "Interesting spell, isn't it? Apparently, Headmaster Dippet cast it when a student took a header off the fifth floor. Any living thing just floats out there. I always thought it would make for an interesting place to hone my wand-aim." He stretched his wand arm out, supporting his wrist with his free hand in an exaggerated targeting stance.

Snape let out a long, hissing breath. He didn't care. Nothing Rosier could do to him was worse than he had already experienced. The worst-case scenario was that he would be sent back to Madam Pomfrey and given a chance to rest and catch up on his homework.

Feeling nothing more than a dull, contemptuous rage, Snape swung his legs forward. The momentum threw his lower body forwards, leaving him floating at an upright, if oddly tilted angle. He felt a smirk tugging at his lips; years of having been dangled in mid-air by both his new master and his old were finally working to his advantage; he remembered how to control his body, even without anything to push off from. Crossing his arms over his chest, he rolled his eyes and let his smirk grow. "Only you would need an over five-foot target to be held stationary two yards away. I suppose that's an improvement—Lucius told me last summer that the only thing you could hit was the long side of his stables."

Rosier stared at him, eyes and mouth wide open, giving him a distinctly cow-like expression. This was clearly not how he had been expecting this encounter to go.

"What, surprised? You're obviously too stupid to realize that I only played mouse to your cat over the years because you were Lucius's footman. Or are you planning to go to Potter whining that his slave didn't cower properly again?"

Rosier sneered. "Potter may have bought you, but he obviously hasn't offered you any protection." He looked inordinately pleased with that brilliant observation.

"He doesn't need to offer me protection; he only has to refuse it to you."

"I'm the one with the wand, slave."

"True, but I'd be surprised if you were holding the right end of it."

Unsurprisingly, Rosier dipped his eyes to check his wand, before he realized that there was no right end of wand. Snape barked out a laugh. There appeared to be one benefit from being Potter's slave: Lucius's lackeys were even thicker than his new master's.

Rosier emitted a sound between a grunt and a growl—obviously having found human languages too complex. He pointed his wand at Snape's face and barked, "Amburo!"

Snape yanked his legs up, causing him to spin backwards quickly. Unfortunately, Rosier's aim was not as poor as Lucius had implied, as he felt the spell strike his shin, sinking through his robes and making him feel as if his flesh was boiling off the bone. He caught his scream between his teeth and refused to let anything more than a hiss of pain to slide past them.

Rosier cursed, probably frustrated at having missed what should have been an easy mark. Snape wished he could trust his voice well enough to taunt him further.

"Expelliarmus!" Both Snape and Rosier jerked their heads around towards the newcomer. Rosier only briefly, as his wand was knocked out of his hand and over the staircase railing. He leapt forward to catch it, but, unlike Snape, the wand dropped like a stone. Snape watched it fall and felt a small bit of glee at the crack with which it met the stone floor below.

"Now who has the wand?" Black asked, sounding almost cheerful.

Rosier turned a blotchy red, caught between fury and humiliation. Snape knew he had looked exactly the same way many times, but this was the first time he'd seen it on someone else. It was a satisfying and pleasant sight.

Rosier, never the master of prudence, challenged, "And what do you think you can do with it? I'm a student, not a slave."

Black inclined his head towards Snape, looking cool and casual, but his eyes and his wand were trained steadily on Rosier. "He's a student, too, last I heard. As to what I can do with my wand...Ranuncule!"

Rosier's eyes went wide as his arms were drawn into his body and his legs fused together beneath his robe. He flopped onto his side, the slimy tip of a flat gray tail twitching from the bottom of his robe. His top half bulged out and his neck shrunk down, joining with his shiny gray body. He flopped helplessly around the landing, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. He was, for all intents and purposes, a giant, malformed tadpole.

Black squinted at the flopping, gasping creature. "Hmm. I don't think I put enough power into it; he was supposed to transform all the way. He's still got his eyes and his hair. What do you think, Snape?"

The tone was light and casual and a perfect copy of Lucius at his most dangerous. Instantly wary, Snape answered, "You are correct, sir." He hesitated, and then decided to take the risk. "Also, you should have aimed a bit higher; the spell is supposed to hit the middle of the body so that it can spread evenly." And if Sirius one day used this spell against him, he would feel like a fool...but it would still be worth the look of frightened, gasping horror on Rosier's mutated face.

"I think you're right. Thank you." He took his eyes of Rosier for the first time. His lips twitched upward and Snape wondered if he was going to do some target practice of his own. "You seem to have, ahem, fallen into a difficult situation."

Snape couldn't help it. He rolled his eyes at the feeble pun. Black pointed his wand at him and he flinched back, causing his entire body to spin backwards. Very impressive.

But Black only cast a gentle Teneo, drawing him back over the railing. Outside of the spell's reaches, he began to fall as soon as he was partway over the landing, and crashed ungracefully onto his side at Black's feet, bruising a hip.

Black stepped quickly away from him, as if it were Snape who was the slimy, limbless creature writhing on the ground. Gruffly, Black asked, "You need to go back to the hospital wing?"

Snape quickly checked his leg. The skin was pink and a little tender—and what hair he had there seemed to have been singed off—but Rosier's spell hadn't been strong enough to do real damage. "No, sir." He stayed on the ground, not sure if this strange moratorium on violence would end if he stood up.

Black stepped over him and started walking down the stairs. He paused after a few steps and called over his shoulder, "Are you coming or not? Rosier will turn back in a minute are so. Do you want to be walking to class alone and wandless while he's lurking about?"

Snape bristled at the implication that he couldn't defend himself. But the truth was that he had been helpless to stop Rosier, and a sharp tongue without a fast wand to back it up was more a liability than a defense.

Even so, Rosier still might be the better option—he was stupid, weak and no longer had a carte blanche to torture Snape at his pleasure—but it was obvious that Black wasn't offering him a choice. He struggled to his feet and followed Black down the staircase with the sinking feeling that this was going to be the best part of his day.


	8. Chapter 8

Even boys have something to say, if you listen long enough.  
—Lynnette, age 8

---

Watching Rosier turn into a giant slug was in fact the best part of the day, but the rest of it seemed inclined to pass by without incident. Black walked him to the greenhouses, though he seemed unwilling to approach the door. Herbology was easy—it didn't require a wand, and Snape knew enough about adult Mandrakes to handle them competently. The rest of his classes were all learning theory, so all he required was the parchment and quill that Potter had issued to him from his own supplies.

It was a long and boring day, which left Snape wishing he was any good at doodling because he would have liked to immortalize the image of Rosier's horrified face looking down at his slimy, grey body on parchment—or, preferably, in stone. As it was, he kept the image playing itself over and over in his mind.

Sadly, Evan had transformed back by the time lunch was over. He, Goyle and Cartier passed him in the corridor as Snape was returning from the kitchens, but the group deliberately walked as far away from his as possible. The rest of the Slytherins were keeping their distance as well; apparently, word had gotten out that Potter's group did not intend to throw him entirely to the wolves.

Personally, Snape wasn't at all sure of what Potter and Black's intentions were, but he didn't mind the reprieve. It was almost pleasant. The Slytherins were avoiding him out of fear, and the Gryffindors, along with most of the Ravenclaws, didn't seem to know what to do with him and so chose to ignore him. The Hufflepuffs didn't seem to have noticed a thing. He had a few students shooting him either disdainful or pitying glances, and there was a bit of pointing and whispering among the lower years, but nothing directly threatening.

Really, it was almost a good day.

Which meant, by all laws of statistical probability, that it couldn't last. His first hint came at dinner, when he found a group of Ravenclaws clowning around by the portrait of the pear that led to the kitchens. Snape was hungry, and he knew that the elves would be too busy with dinner in the great hall to feed him right away. He needed to eat soon; if Potter decided to have fun with him tonight, he would need to have most of his dinner already settled if he was going to keep any of it down.

He headed towards the great hall.

When his hands began to shake, and his throat constricted so that it felt like he was breathing through a straw, he realized he had made a mistake. He felt the same weight he had felt during the last attack fall against his chest again, pressing what air he managed to get out of his lungs.

No. He refused to do this again. He shut his eyes and with an act of pure will, stumbled back down the corridor. He made it into a deep alcove behind a suit of armor before sliding down to the floor and pressing his forehead into his bony knees.

"Snape? Are you all right?"

No. No, no, no, no. His body would not betray him like this again. Not now, in front of Potter. His master peered around the suit, blinking owlishly in the dim light.

"I'm fine, Master," he pressed out through his tight throat and clenched teeth.

"You're a terrible liar," Potter replied. If Snape hadn't been struggling to breath, he might have been offended.

As it was, he tried futilely to slide deeper into the alcove, away from his master. Potter stepped forward, standing in front of the suit of armor and blocking Snape's view of the corridor. "What's wrong? Is it happening again—do you need to go back to the hospital wing?" Potter stepped closer.

Too close. Snape felt his body curling inward like a dead spider. His heart was beating too fast but he forced his lungs to take in slow, steady breaths. If he kept breathing, he wouldn't pass out.

Snape shut his eyes and imagined himself shut in somewhere dark and safe. When he was very small, the house elves had shown him how to use forgotten tunnels to slide into the hollow space between floors. He had a brief, faded memory of lying there, surrounded by warm wood and stone, listening to his masters' boot steps pass over him. They had never found him there, even when they were looking. It was the only place of absolute safety he knew for several years, before he grew too big to squeeze in any longer.

He imagined himself encased in darkness, breathing in the musty old wood and tracing patterns in the ancient stone with one small, clumsy finger. He imagined his masters passing over him, unaware. He imagined Rangly, the old rebellious house elf that would sometimes lie beside him and whisper stories from the old time, when house elves and humans had been wary equals. He heard the rough, hoarse voice filling his ears, soothing. He took a deep, easy breath and blew the illusion from his mind.

"Snape? Snape, can you hear me? Have you passed out again?"

With a relieved sigh, Snape opened his eyes. He was still cold and clammy, his heart was still fluttering a bit and he felt less than steady—but at least he could breath, and he wasn't unconscious. Whatever fit he'd had seemed to have passed.

"Snape? Oh for—REMUS!"

Snape flinched at the sharp yell, but recovered quickly. "Master, that's not necessary."

It was Potter's turn to jump in surprise. "What the hell? What happened to you?"

Snape was saved from replying by Lupin, who popped his head over Potter's shoulder. His eyes widened a bit and he punched Potter's arm, hard. "James, what are you scaring him for?"

"I'm not!"

"So he's curled up behind a suit of armor for his health?" This time it was Lily Evan's glacial voice that broke in. Potter spun on his heels and stuttered something unintelligible. Evans looked over Potter's shoulder, nearly oozing pity on him.

Partly out of spite and partly out of prudence, Snape cleared his throat and stood up, glad that his robes still covered his shaking knees. "Why I'm standing," he emphasized that last word, "in an alcove is none of your business, Evans. Unless you think I'm breaking a school rule by harassing the armor."

Evans' mouth opened, and then shut it in a thin, hard line. Potter had wisely stepped out from between them. However, he did throw his own dirty look in Snape's direction.

Wonderful. He was trying to be polite to Evans, in deference to his master's interest in her, but he didn't want her useless pity. And, even more, he didn't want to be punished for indirectly ruining whatever microscopic chance Potter might have with his current love interest. He swallowed the tattered strips of pride he had left and apologized. "I'm sorry. Potter and I were just talking. There really isn't anything to be concerned about."

Evans stared at him, quite obviously trying to decide whether or not the word of a slave spoken in front of his master was worth the breath it was carried on. He widened his eyes and tried to look honest, instead of shaky and tense. Lily narrowed her eyes, showing that she wasn't quite as dense as he expected.

But she didn't challenge him, just walked away toward the Great Hall. Potter looked after her like an abandoned puppy, but didn't make a move to follow.

Lupin asked him, "Are you all right, really? We saw you run down the hall."

Snape nodded, and risked taking his hands out of his pockets. They were almost steady now, so he used his left one to tuck his hair back behind his ear.

Potter snapped his attention back to the here and now. "Did it happen again? That, er, brain attack?"

Lupin huffed. "You make it sound as if his brain escaped from his skull and bit somebody's ankle."

"This is Hogwarts," James replied. "Stranger things have happened."

He looked back at Snape. "Well, did you?"

The question he really didn't want to answer. But the answer was obvious so there was no point in lying and he didn't have time to come up with a plausible half-truth. "Yes," he admitted, "but this was...mild. I think I was able to control it somewhat."

"Er. So you're all right?"

"Yes," he answered on a sigh. He really wished they would stop asking him that. "I'm fine." Except that he was going mad, but there were plenty of mad potion masters in the world.

Lupin, bright boy, looked doubtful. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure."

"Well," Potter chimed in, "you didn't pass out. That's an improvement."

Snape didn't know quite how to react to that, so he didn't react at all. Potter sounded as if he was taunting him, but his voice was casual, not slick with cruelty and malice the way it had been a few months ago.

"Do you need to go to the hospital wing?" Lupin asked.

"Do I look sick or injured to you? Really, I am just fine." It came out harder than he'd intended—and his lack of control proved that he was not fine—but when he checked Potter's expression, he found no reaction. It seemed that Potter was willing to tolerate a level of insolence from him.

Potter was chewing his bottom lip, looking speculative. "If you're all right, then you can sit with us during dinner."

So much for lenience—Potter was just more subtle than he'd expected. He tried to hang on to his breathing, but it was obvious from Lupin and Potter's looks that they knew something was wrong.

There was no reason for this. He had never been shy eating or sitting in the Great Hall before this summer. Snape didn't have irrational fears—he had far too many rational ones to panic at the thought of doing something he'd done thousands of times before.

And yet, he was clearly panicking. And defying what was clearly an order from his master, which did not help to calm his mind.

He could not afford to lose control, not here, not again. His master was watching him, waiting for him to fail...

"Um, maybe this isn't such a good idea," Lupin said.

Snape turned too quickly to face him, almost losing his balance. The movement made him dizzy, forcing him to lean against the cool, stone wall for balance. His legs felt light and weak and he felt his body sliding down the wall before he forced his legs straight and locked his knees.

"Er," James asked, "You're not going to pass out again, are you?"

"Or be sick?" Lupin added, standing back and looking a little greenish himself.

Snape tried to shake his head, but that started the world shaking with it, so he just stood against the wall, mouth open and gasping.

James took pity on him. "If you don't want to go back to the hospital wing, why don't you go back to the dorms? You don't exactly look hungry anymore."

Snape leaned his head against the wall and stared up at the cobwebbed rafters for a moment. Whatever madness had come was now slowly creeping away, seeping out of his pores. Though, noting the werewolf's pinched expression, that might be his fear-tainted sweat. He really needed to shower again.

He still felt shaky and a little light-headed, but it seemed to take barely half a minute to calm down again this time.

"Thank you, Master." Snape pulled hesitantly away from the walls. Potter inclined his head in the direction of the staircase, dismissing him back to the dorms. Snape turned down the corridor, right hand dragging over the rough stone walls for support.

---

When they reached the Gryffindor table, James sat down and dropped his head in his hands. "I know," he said through his palms, "I'll talk to him tonight."

"Did I say anything?" Lupin asked, all innocence.

"You said I should talk to Snape."

"I said that yesterday."

"And I haven't done it yet."

"I've noticed."

"See." James pointed an accusing finger at Remus' chest. "You were nagging me."

Remus grabbed the finger and pulled it sideways. "I wasn't even looking at you."

"You didn't have to."

"James," Remus said slowly, "I was looking at Susannah Walsh, who just walked into the Hall wearing a robe that fits very well. I promise you that the look I was wearing was not meant for you and it certainly had nothing to do with Snape."

James stole a glance at Susannah—who had just sat down at the end of the table, and was in fact wearing a robe that fit very well. He raised an eyebrow at Lupin.

"No, James, don't even think about it...I can get my own dates."

"Moony," Sirius's voice broke in from behind them, "have you even had a date in the six years we've been here?"

"None of your business," Lupin answered back with an air of friendly hostility, which was put off by his red-splotched cheeks.

Sirius sat down and began loading up his plate. "Of course it's our business. We're your best friends. We are here to lock you in broom closets with the girls you like, and then tease you mercilessly about it afterwards."

"Yes, and Nadia won't even look me in the eye now."

Sirius shrugged. "Happens to me all the time. Nothing to worry about."

Remus rolled his eyes. "Anyway," he said, clearly needing to change the subject. "About Snape."

"What about Snape?" asked Sirius, his fork wrapped in noodles and halted half-way to his mouth.

"He nearly passed out just a few minutes ago," Remus answered.

Sirius shrugged. "Well, don't you think he might be faking it?"

"No," answered Lupin, before James could even open his mouth. "Trust me; what he's feeling is real." He surreptitiously tapped the tip of his long nose. "Anyway, why would he do that?"

"To gain sympathy? To make us feel like we had to protect him?"

"That's absurd." Remus had given up on eating entirely. "And, anyway, why shouldn't we feel like we need to protect him? He doesn't have a wand and he belongs to one of us, now."

James added, "Didn't you turn Rosier into a slug for picking on Snape, this morning?"

"That's my point." Sirius jabbed the air with his empty fork for emphasis. "I felt bad for him because I saw him having a fit, and I went out of my way for him because of it."

"So you would have let Rosier take potshots at him if you hadn't seen him collapse?" Remus asked.

Sirius didn't answer, but stared down at his plate. Remus looked at him with an expression that could have been disappointment or disgust.

Peter chose that moment to plop himself between James and Sirius, a position he was welcome to at the moment.

Remus, who had long ago become the group's default secretary, summarized the salient points for Peter while still casting Padfoot those strange, sad looks.

"Well," said Peter, when he was done listening, "I agree with Sirius. Snape isn't to be trusted. He is a Slytherin."

"Good point," agreed Sirius, finally meeting Remus' eyes in challenge.

"No, not a good point." Lupin had started tapping his knife against his plate fast, arrhythmic pattern. He shot an irritated glance at Peter. "Snape isn't a Slytherin anymore. He's a Gryffindor. And even if he were—we've gone way past house rivalries. Snape is a slave and he's probably been tortured—that gives him plenty of reason to be a bit touchy. No sinister plots needed."

"Oh hell," said James, remembering what Remus had said a moment ago. "Snape doesn't have a wand."

Remus gave him a look that made James wish he could do puppy dog eyes like Sirius. "You mean you didn't notice?"

"I've had other things on my mind! Anyway, he should have said something—I'm not his babysitter."

"He probably thought you'd use it against him. He doesn't trust you."

"You're nagging again, aren't you?"

"Yeah, I suppose I am. Just...talk to him soon. And at least make sure he gets a wand, unless you want to start escorting him every time he leaves the tower."

"I will. Maybe I can send him to Diagon Alley by himself."

"Ask McGonagall to take him—she took me when I was a first year. And make sure you get him some money."

"As long as I don't have to go with him. It took me two years to get Lily to go on a date with me, and I'm not putting it off for Snape."

"A date?" Sirius broke in, "I thought she had merely deigned to let you remain within her presence this weekend."

"For Prongs here," Remus explained, "that's close enough."

---

Snape had the dorm room to himself for about an hour before he had to go to Astronomy. One of the elves dropped a tray on his lap, and he ate with mechanical efficiency. His skin still felt tacky and his limbs felt achy and separate from his body, so he took his second shower of the day, the only medicine available to him at the moment. It did help, and he felt much better by the time he was making his way back from the grassy patch by the greenhouse where class had been held.

The feeling lasted until he opened the large wooden door into the dorm room. Potter was there, sitting on Snape's bed, fiddling with his wand. There wasn't much ambiguity in that gesture, and Snape felt his skin go cold and prickly as dread coiled in his belly.

At least he wasn't passing out, yet.

Potter gestured to his chair. "Sit."

Snape sat, his mind going blank.

"Remus keeps telling me I need to talk to you."

The werewolf? Snape guessed from Potter's rather formulaic that this night would be about punishment rather than lust, but he was surprised to hear that Lupin had requested it. Had he read the werewolf that badly?

"I, uh, talked to Slughorn. You've got extra lessons on Thursdays to make up for the time you missed."

"What?" The words fell from his lips before he could stop them. Potter was not following the script he expected at all.

"I talked to Slughorn. Well, I sort of threatened him, really. But he agreed to let you make up the time you missed with private lessons. You'll probably have to talk to him to work out the time."

Snape shook his head, curling his fingers around the edge of his chair, seeking an anchor. This conversation was not going the way he was expecting, and he was still waiting to see if this was a detour or if it was Potter he'd misjudged.

Potter's eyebrows had knitted. "What's the problem?"

Snape had to work some saliva into his throat before he answered. "No problem. There's no problem."

"You were shaking your head a second ago."

"I was...just wondering what you used to blackmail Slughorn to get him to do your bidding."

Potter bought it. He relaxed, leaning back on his palms. "My dad's reputation, actually. It was pretty easy—that man has about as much spine as his namesake."

"It depends. He can be...stubborn, if you have nothing to bargain with."

"I know." Potter moved his eyes to some point over Snape's desk. "But if he gives you any trouble...if he's more of a slime ball than usual...tell him off. And then tell me. If I can talk Sirius out of a year's worth of detentions, I think I can manage it for you."

"I—thank you," Snape said, sincerely. He already knew that Slughorn was not aroused by teenage boys, but he was glad to hear that Potter was willing to limit those who took liberties with his body.

"Also, I talked to Professor McGonagall. She'll take you to Diagon Alley this weekend to get a wand and supplies."

Snape closed his eyes, briefly. "Thank you again."

A wand and supplies meant permanence. It meant the Potter family had decided to make an investment in his education here at Hogwarts and that as long as he performed well he could expect some limited security. That was the best news he'd had all week.

"There's one more thing." Potter continued to stare past him, face flushing bright red. "Remus said that you were worried that I might want to, er, you know...do things."

Snape stared, nearly going cross-eyed as he tried to understand what Potter was saying. Do what things?

Potter, though he seemed unable to look at him, must have realized that he had been less than clear. "Okay. Um. What Sirius said the other night? About, you know...to you..." The blush had spread down Potter's face to his neck and, oddly, across his knuckles. "You know?"

Snape unclamped his jaws and tried to keep his voice from shaking when he answered, "Black said that I was waiting for you to bugger me."

"Yeah," Potter choked. "That."

Snape waited. Potter's response did not sound like he was interested in fulfilling Black's predictions. That was some reassurance.

"Um, you should know that...that isn't going to happen to you anymore. I don't know exactly what Malfoy did to you—and I really don't want to—but that's not...we're not like that. We won't hurt you for fun."

Snape recalled hanging upside down by the lake, pants sliding down his knees and begging red-faced for them to stop.

Potter seemed to remember as well. "I know we went a little far, sometimes, but we never really hurt you...well, much. And you have to admit, you usually gave back as good as you got."

Snape's lips quirked upwards in an attempted smirk. That much was true, though he didn't quite dare to say it aloud.

"But you can't do that anymore, and we won't try and prank you or pick on you because that wouldn't be fair."

"Four against one is fair?" Snape asked, before his mouth realized that it was speaking to his master. If Potter would only act the part, Snape might be much better able to control his tongue and perhaps even his emotions.

"Well, Peter doesn't really count for much, so it was more like three-and-a-half against one."

Snape refrained from commenting on the adequacy of that excuse.

"You are pretty good with your wand and you did manage to defend yourself, unless we caught you by surprise. I suppose that we reckoned that if you could stand up to us some of the time, you should be able to defend yourself all of the time."

"Then it was my fault that I couldn't keep the three of you at bay all of the time." Snape knew that he was on thin ice contradicting his master, but something about Potter's tone and the things he was saying aggravated a very old sore spot within him.

Potter ducked his head. "Well, it makes less sense when you say it that way."

That sounded dangerously close to an apology, Snape thought. As close as Potter could get before Snape was certain that he was lying.

"As for what Sirius said," Potter continued, "that won't happen either. You shouldn't be made to...well, to have sex against your will. I promise I won't make you do anything like that, for anyone."

Fucking hell. Now he knew: Potter was lying. He was half expecting it, but he was unprepared for the low, simmering anger that burned through his gut.

Potter might have just enough of a conscience to refrain from tormenting a completely helpless creature, but no master would refrain from taking advantage of any profit that could be made from his slave's body purely on moral grounds.

And now that he knew Potter was toying with him, he couldn't be sure of anything that Potter had or would say.

He hated being lied to, and he hated being forced to play these stupid mind-fuck games that he could never win, no matter that he was three times smarter than the sadistic bastard that owned him. He was so fucking tired of this.

Potter, who still looked convincingly earnest, asked, "Are you all right?"

Snape nodded, jaw clenched. "Is that all?"

Potter looked uncertain, probably trying to decide whether or not he had overplayed his hand. Finally, he nodded. "Yeah, that's all." Potter got up and walked to the door. He stopped just before he left and opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it without speaking. He left the room in silence.

That night, while Potter's group was sleeping, he stole the werewolf's wand and cast detection spells on all the beds. He couldn't prevent whatever Potter was going to do to him, but at least he would be able to see it coming. While he was at it, he cast a muffling charm on his own bed.

If he did manage to sleep, he did not want to worry about inviting punishment by waking up one of the Gryffindors with his nightmares.

---

The rest of the week went by with agonizing slowness. Nothing happened. The Slytherins continued to avoid him, and the rest of the school also seemed to have forgotten his existence. Potter's gang left him alone; Snape didn't expect that Potter would pounce on him until after he had gone to Diagon Alley, if indeed he was going to be allowed to go.

His sleep was erratic. He managed a few hours a night, but his nerves were frayed and his body exhausted by the time he was called into Professor McGonagall's office Saturday Morning.

He sat in the hard chair in front of her desk and accepted her offer of tea, welcoming the caffeine.

"I expect that Mr. Potter told you that you'll be going to Diagon Alley instead of Hogsmeade this weekend."

Snape nodded, fingers from both hands curled around the plain white teacup. So it was really happening, then.

"Good. You really should not have had to go so long without basic supplies."

Snape shrugged.

"Is…are you well?"

Snape considered. Now that she knew what he was, he could answer that question honestly. "I am…relatively healthy. Potter hasn't hurt me yet, if that's what you're asking."

"It wasn't, entirely. This has not been an easy transition for you, I'm sure."

"No."

She looked at him, obviously waiting for him to continue. He sat silently, staring at his teacup until he heard her sigh and shift in her chair.

"All right, but please let me know if you need any help." She arranged some scrolls on her desk. "I need to run some errands there as well, so I've agreed to take you along. You may Floo to the Leaky Cauldron. I will Apparate right behind you."

Before stepping into the fire, Snape took a deep breath—so he would have something to get knocked out of him when he landed—and stepped through.

A moment later, he tumbled out on to the dusty oak floor. Sure enough, he landed flat on his back with the wind knocked out of him.

McGonagall Apparated beside him with a neat snap. Snape glared up at her for a moment before struggling to haul himself off the floor. The professor dropped a hand down to help him up and Snape accepted with good grace.

"Did you have breakfast?" McGonagall asked, glancing at the grandfather clock in the corner of the room.

"Yes," Snape lied. He didn't want to eat here, and McGonagall looked like she had somewhere to be sometime soon.

"Do you have a list of the things you need?"

"Yes." Snape patted his empty side pocket. He tried to avoid lists; they were too easily sabotaged or destroyed or used against him.

"I'll need to do my own errands. Would you rather come along with me and do our shopping together or meet me at the Loma Inn for lunch?"

Snape didn't hesitate. "I'd rather be own my own, if that's all right?"

"Of course. Just remember to stay in Diagon Alley."

"Yes, Professor."

McGonagall removed her wand. "May I?" she asked. Snape nodded, having no idea what she was planning to do with it. He managed to suppress a flinch when she tapped his lips with it, then her ear. "There. If you run into any trouble, just call my name. I'll hear you, no matter where you are. Call even if you feel just a bit uncomfortable with a situation."

They walked out of the Leaky Cauldron together. As they were going their separate ways, McGonagall reminded him, "Do please try to stay out of trouble. Your behavior still reflects on the school and myself, and I don't need Potter's permission to assign detentions."

"Yes, Professor."

Snape's first instinct was to head for Ollivander's and get a wand, but the weekend bustle was making him even more edgy and frayed than he already was. The wand shop was too far down the narrow, bustling streets for him to run there, and then back so he could buy his cauldrons and books.

His first stop was the Flosh's Cauldrons, which almost made up for having to wait to buy his wand. There was no one waiting on him, so he allowed himself to examine the elegant gold cauldrons in the window, and the giant silver ones on display. Seeing that nobody was watching, he pretended he was really going to buy one, running a finger along the rim to test the smoothness, tapping the side to listen for the right consistency of metal and examining the bottom for evenness. He promised himself that one day he would do this to a set of laboratory grade cauldrons and take them home after, before going into the back of the shop to perform the same inspection on the used pewter cauldrons on the bottom shelf.

Half an hour later, he had an almost-new collapsible cauldron and a cheap shoulder bag to carry it in.

A trip to Scribbulus outfitted him with a supply of his own parchments, quills and ink, which he bundled together in a side pocket, the one with holes too small for the entire package to slip through. In the next store he picked up the required texts, then spent another half hour sitting on the floor, reading the latest potions journal, before he saw one of the shop assistants coming to chase him off.

He stopped in front of the robe shop, eyeing the heavy woolen cloak in the window. He knew perfectly well that this trip was at least partly a test. A good slave thought of his master first and himself last. Snape was far from a good slave, but he knew that his masters would be going over his purchases, looking to see whether or not he had bought only what he needed, and at the least possible expense to them. Never mind that the Potters surely had money to spare, and the tattered robes the house elves scrounged for him were drafty and cold. He knew all too well that his comfort didn't matter.

If he performed well, perhaps he could ask for a cloak as a reward. Lucius' father had done that a few times for him, and even forbidden Lucius from taking his reward away as soon as they were out of sight.

He hesitated at the edge of Knockturn Alley. McGonagall's warning not to 'wander off' most certainly included the dodgy side street, but just a few shops down there was an apothecary. Their means of collecting the ingredients was questionable, and he had often found lizard hearts thrown in with their dragon hearts selection, but he knew how to pick the proper ingredients, regardless of how they were labeled.

They were cheaper, and more importantly, Snape knew how to disable the theft-detection charms. There were some ingredients he would need for healing potions that he could nick those while he was buying the rest of the supplies.

Inside, the store was dim and dusty. All the corners were grimy, as if the owners of the shop couldn't be bothered to do more than a general sweeping charm. The man behind the counter, heavy-set and hairy, leered at him as he entered. That was unusual; the man generally ignored his presence until he deposited his Knuts and supplies on the counter.

The man's eyes followed him as he examined each ingredient before selecting it. Snape took twice as long as he needed, but the man's eyes still followed him. It made the hair prickle and his skin itch; worse, it meant he wouldn't have the opportunity to palm the ingredients he couldn't have on the expense account.

He gave the vial of Salamander legs a long last look and turned to deposit his supplies.

His nose collided with the man's burly chest and he stumbled backwards. He instinctively tried to turn away, but as soon as he started to run the man grabbed him by the collar of his robe and jerked him back. One meaty arm came around his neck, and another across his chest. He stopped fighting when he realized that he wasn't going to get free.

"So," breathed the grinding voice of the shop keeper, "You're that slave who was playing at being a real boy, eh?"

Snape didn't respond, his body and mind having frozen. This couldn't be happening. How had this man, who looked to be functionally illiterate, have heard about him? It had been in the prophet, but there wasn't any picture.

"Answer me!"

Snape started. "Yes," he croaked. "I am."

"What did you take?"

"Nothing," Snape gasped, tugging at the thick arm around his neck. The arm on his chest patted down his robe and sleeves, then returned to squeeze the air out of him.

"What were you going to take, then?"

Snape shook his head. The man tightened his grip and Snape could feel his ribs creak under the pressure. He clamped his jaws shut.

"Stubborn one, aren't you?" The man's mouth was so close that Snape could feel his tongue brushing against his ear. It sent cold shivers down his body. "All right. You wanted foxweed and salamander gut for a healing paste to help you when your masters roughed you up a bit, right?"

Snape didn't respond. The man was so close that he could feel the curve of the man's belly and the cold, prickly skin pressing against him. He shivered.

With a motion that was almost a caress, the shop keeper slipped two vials into his front pocket. The fingers of his right hand dragged across Snape's stomach and stretched lower, brushing over the top of Snape's groin.

"You can have it, you know. Give me half an hour in that back room there and they're yours. I'll even give you something to fix up any rough patches afterwards."

Snape tried again to wrench free, but the man just squeezed until Snape began to choke and cough as his throat closed in.

"Or, I can send your new masters word that you tried to steal it and then offered me your services when I caught you red-handed." He patted the potions in Snape's pocket.

"V-veritaserum," Snape croaked, reflexive tears forming in his eyes from the pressure on his throat.

"Why would they waste an expensive potion on a slave when a little extra discipline could only make him quicker to please?"

He was right. Snape felt like a small animal trapped in an even smaller cage, scrambling against walls pressing in from every direction. There was no way out.

The man took his frozen silence for acquiescence. He released his grip on Snape's throat and chest, instead wrapping his sausage-like fingers over Snape's shoulders and propelling him in the direction of a half-open door in the back of the shop.

This couldn't be happening. But it already had. Hundreds, maybe thousands of times before. There was the memory, sudden and all-consuming, of other hands on him, over him, in him. Of the horror and pain that he had rolled into a ball and shoved down a trapdoor in his mind. In that moment, he was certain, absolutely certain that he would die if one more set of hands, one more set of cold lips or one more hard cock touched him.

Snape threw himself backwards with all his strength.

The man didn't budge, but the impact of the hard chest knocked the wind out of Snape's lungs. Fighting to see through the spots dancing over his vision, Snape looked down as he picked up his right leg and slammed his heel over the man's foot.

The man grunted and bent over. Snape threw his head back, striking the man's nose hard enough to knock him backwards. He broke free and scrambled towards the door.

He felt a greasy hand close over the hem of his robe and yank, making him fall forwards on his hands and knees. The two vials slipped out of a hole in his pocket and shattered on the wooden floor. Snape got his feet under him and drove forward. He felt the hem tear as he broke free. He charged the open door, looking over his shoulder once he was clear. The man tried to rush him, but slipped on the preserved salamander, landing hard on his side.

Snape ran down the street, scrambling up the worn stone steps leading back to Diagon Alley.

He kept running down the street, dodging other shoppers, until he felt his legs go weak and wobbly and he staggered into a shallow passage between two shops. Choking and shaking, he braced his back against a wall, pressing his hands against the bricks to keep himself standing when his knees threatened to give way.

Oh god. He shouldn't have fought. He should have let the man go through with it and taken the ingredients. When the man contacted the school, contacted the Potters, he was going to hurt worse than he would have if he had just let the big, lonely pervert take him.

He pressed against the wall and pulled in a few more gasping, almost sobbing breaths. He'd survived the last fifteen years of life; he could survive whatever punishment the Potters meted out. He could.

"Run off from your new master already?" drawled a voice he knew far too well. He jerked his head around to face the entrance of the alley and found Lucius leaning casually against the corner of the wall. His entourage milled a few feet away, watching with a hungry, sadistic anticipation.

Snape felt the mindless panic wash over him and he struggled to find the impassive facade that had carried him through most of his life. He couldn't. All he could do was stare at Lucius with a feeling of pure dread sitting like poison at the bottom of his stomach.

Lucius smirked, obviously enjoying the reaction he was causing. "What's the problem, slave? Do you miss me?" He slipped forward; Snape took an involuntary step backwards.

"I see. Potter is too...unrefined for you, isn't he? You must miss being owned by someone who knows how to handle a slave." Lucius grabbed himself in a way that was anything but refined.

Snape's stomach jerked and he could feel the burn of acid in his throat. He forced himself to swallow it back down. Lucius studied his face, looking as if he wanted to memorize the marks of horror and fear he must have found there.

"I know your kind of slave. You always look like you are on the edge of rebellion, but all you really want is a master to put you back in your place. Isn't that right?" At Snape's silence, he snapped, "Answer me!"

Snape tried to shake his head, but he couldn't. A strange, numbing paralysis had crept through his body like ice water.

Lucius strode forward, so close now that Snape could feel his hot breath against his cold skin. "Do you need someone to put you back in your place? Do you long to feel the caress of a whip, wielded by a master? Do you long to feel my body pressing you down, beneath me, in your place?

"I've missed you, Snape. Nobody else will play our games." He reached a pale, spidery hand towards Snape's face, nails scratching over his cheek.

Snape felt something inside him break with the suddenness and finality of a wand snapping in two. Terror and rage became one seething wave, and Snape heard a low animal growl at the same time he felt a sharp pain shoot from his fist to his elbow.

When his eyes focused again, he found Lucius crumpled at is feet, both hands covering his nose and tears in his eyes. Blood seeped between his palms.

Some rational voice called from the back of his head that this was it, he had attacked his master and now he would be held down and taken apart piece by piece until there was nothing left to keep him alive.

But at that moment, he just didn't care. Lucius was cringing from him, cowering like an animal. There was a fierce, burning satisfaction in that. It felt so good that he drew his foot back and swung it into Lucius's ribs with all his strength. Lucius whimpered and curled up on himself. Snape tottered uncertainly on his trembling legs, but he managed to keep his feet. He kicked again, not aiming, only trying to keep his balance and inflict as much pain as he could on the man who had tortured him.

He kept kicking, feebly, desperately, even as he felt arms wrap around him and haul him backwards. He saw a flash of orange as two Aurors burst through the growing crowd, wands out. He struggled weakly for a moment before his knees gave way and he let himself fall backwards into the arms of the Aurors.

---

James had spent the week preparing for battle. He knew that he was going to have to make this day perfect if he wanted Lily to agree to a second date.

And he did want that, badly.

He had planned everything. He had asked the kitchen elves for a picnic lunch and bribed Peter to stash his broom and invisibility cloak outside the Shrieking Shack, since it was easy for him to sneak back inside the castle in rat form.

He arrived at the gates of Hogwarts in plenty of time, but Lily was already waiting for him. Instead of the regular school robes, she wore a long-sleeved top and a set of those blue Muggle trousers that had caught on a few years back.

"Hello," he said, enthusiastically.

"Hello," Lily replied, much more sedately. But James was sure he could see the corners of her lips twitching upwards.

They walked side-by-side towards Hogsmeade, with James working tirelessly to draw her into conversation. She resisted at first, but bit by bit James managed to learn that she had a sister and a mother, that her father had died when she was in first year. He also discovered that she preferred Muggle rock music to anything the wizarding world could offer, that she hated tomatoes and green onions and that she had a terrible sweet tooth.

When they reached Hogsmeade, Lily started toward one of the shops, but James stopped her. "Can't you do that later? I want to show you something."

Lily crossed her arms against her chest and gave him an exasperated glare. "Potter, I know what that line means. Don't insult my intelligence."

"What?" James blinked, and then turned bright red because he had used that line before, but this time it wasn't just a line. "I didn't mean it that way, honestly."

Lily raised one thin eyebrow to communicate her skepticism.

"Really. I won't even ask for a kiss, I promise."

Lily showed no signs of relenting. "I need to do my shopping."

James rolled his eyes. "Do you really need a new set of dress robes, or whatever it is?"

Lily's eyes narrowed and James wished for a rusty knife to remove his own tongue with. He was sure this courtship would go much more smoothly if he couldn't talk.

Lily stepped away from him. "I need to replace my cauldron and I need to get my sister a birthday present. I don't have set of dress robes, and I don't need any. Now, you can either come with me or you can go find Black and snog with him in the woods instead."

James processed this. "So, does that mean if I go with you, I'll get to...?"

"No."

"Okay." James accepted this temporary rejection with good grace. "So what are you going to get your sister?"

"Sweets, probably." Lily started walking down the windy, cobbled street towards the sweetshop. James followed.

"So, you like your sister a lot?"

Lily glanced at him. "Sometimes."

"And this time...?"

"I'll probably get her the truffles that don't turn you into a gorilla."

James tried to decide if that was a good or a bad thing. "Would you get me the truffles that turn me into a gorilla?"

Lily cocked an eyebrow at him. "You don't need magic truffles for that."

James grinned and tipped his head to acknowledge that he'd walked right into that one.

He managed to keep the conversation going as Lily examined cauldrons and sweets for her sister. He learned that she hated it when people chewed with their mouths open—as her sister did—and she loved dogs even though she'd never had one. James decided that Padfoot would have to stay far away from Lily for the foreseeable future. It would be a shame if he had to kill his best friend for getting scratched behind the ears by James' girl.

Fortunately, Lily was an efficient shopper. She was practical and didn't seem inclined to dwell once she'd made her decision. They were done quickly.

"So," James asked, "Can I show you, now?"

"Show me what?" Lily asked, still looking wary.

"Show you what I wanted to show you."

Lily crossed her arms. "And this thing you want to show me doesn't live in your pants, does it?"

"No!" Merlin, did everyone think that the only functioning brain he had was below the waistline?

"And you will under no circumstance attempt to grope or kiss me?"

"Do I look like Sirius to you? No, I won't. I'll be a perfect gentleman, I swear."

Lily sighed. "All right. Lead the way."

James led her up the hill to the Shrieking Shack. He stopped in front of the ramshackle building. Lily tapped her foot and sighed again. "Potter, everyone's seen the Shrieking Shack at least once. It's not all that impressive."

"No, hold on." James hopped the waist high fence into the yard. "I just need to get something inside." He went in, picked up his Cleansweep and put his cloak in his pocket. When he came out, Lily's eyes fastened on his broom.

So, she liked Cleansweeps. Good.

"You could have brought two brooms," Lily complained half-heartedly. "I can ride as well as you can."

"True, but we couldn't use this if we took two brooms." With a lot more flourish than necessary, he produced the invisibility cloak from his pocket, letting it dangle from his hand and shimmer like an iridescent shadow.

"Huh," said Lily, clearly unimpressed. "That explains a lot."

Still with that little skeptical furrow between her eyebrows, Lily settled behind James on the broom and helped him drape the cloak around both of them.

"I'm pretty sure this against school rules," she observed.

James smiled, though she couldn't see it. "Definitely. But I've done this dozens of times—we won't get caught."

Lily, proving herself to be a bit more of rebel than he'd expected, only settled herself more comfortably on the broom and adjusted the cloak over both of them.

Lily yelped and tugged on his shoulders as he began a spiral descent into a small clearing. "This is the Forbidden Forest!"

"Yeah?" He set them down gently on the soft earth. "What's the problem?"

"It's forbidden. It's so forbidden that they put the word in its name so that even people with attention spans as short as yours would remember." Lily had brought out her full on glare again, but instead of making him dizzy and tongue-tied, it made him want to smile even more.

James crouched down by the shallow pond on one side of the clearing. "We're safe as houses here, I promise. Look," he said, indicating the pool with his hand, "See what's in there?"

Lily transferred her glare from him to the pond, and gasped at what she saw. The water was as clear as glass and in it tiny, glowing silver fish darted back and forth in what looked like an endless game of tag.

Lily knelt by the pond, skimming the water with her palm. James congratulated himself on successfully distracting her from her concern.

"Unicorns drink here every night," he explained. "That's why the water is so clear. Those little fish are the only thing I've ever seen live in there."

Lily stepped back from the pond and looked around the rest of the clearing. Ferns sprouted out from the undergrowth, and thick-bodied trees stretched out above them. The pond glowed from the light of the strange fish and the moss-covered logs made inviting seats.

"This place really is beautiful, James." She smiled at him in a way that tied his stomach in knots. "Thank you for showing it to me."

"You're welcome. And I know how to make it even better." James clapped three times and snapped his finger. A sharp pop and a little green creature appeared bearing a wicker basket as long as it was tall.

"Hi, Fozzy."

Fozzy grinned and bowed. "Master Potter's picnic, just as Master Potter ordered!"

Lily looked worriedly at the little house elf. "You're not going to report us, are you?"

"Oh, no Miss Evans, Fozzy would never do! Nobody has ever ordered the kitchen elves to say where the students have gone."

"Fozzy is a friend," James said, smiling at the elf. "I give him tea cozies, and he brings me food when I'm…exploring."

"I see." Lily turned her smile toward the house elf. "Thank you for lunch, Fozzy."

The little elf nearly fell over himself. James waited politely until Fozzy had finished spasming with gratitude over Lily's kindness and had popped back to the castle before unpacking the basket.

James let the conversation drop as they ate. Lily seemed content to nibble at her sandwich and lean back against her log, listening to the sounds of the forest.

Finally, he got up and straddled the log she was leaning against. "Why did you agree to go out with me today?"

Lily stretched out in a patch of sunshine, looking up at him. "Because it didn't look like you were going to give up until I did. Why did you ask me out?"

"I like you," James answered, honestly.

"Why?" Lily asked.

"Why do I like you? Well, you're the prettiest girl in the school, for one thing."

Lily scoffed, her arms folding in. "Try another line, Potter."

"It's true," James protested.

"No, it's not. I'm too skinny and I've hardly got any breasts at all. Lily was sitting up now, her face tense and sharp again.

Looking at her, James realized she was right. She was almost as skinny as Remus, and without much more of a chest, either. But James found that all her small chest meant to him was that he wouldn't have to murder Sirius for looking too long in the wrong direction.

"Well," he said finally, "I only shave once a week, and it's only a little patch on the side of my chin."

Lily shook her head. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Sirius shaves every day, and even Remus and Peter have more of a beard than I do. But I'll catch up with them eventually. Hell, I'll probably get a beard at the same time as you get breasts."

Lily pressed her forehead to her palm, but James could see the traces the smile she was hiding. "You have the strangest idea of how to reassure a girl that I have ever heard, Potter."

"I'm a little off my stroke right now," he admitted.

"If the rumors of your charm are true, then you aren't even on the pitch. But, really, why do you like me? You've been harassing me for nearly a year."

Lily was looking at him with an intensity that belied her teasing tone, so he shoved that line of thought out of his head. He cast around for the words that would explain what he felt. Finally, he blurted, "I want to be like you when I grow up."

"You've gone completely round the twist." Lily looked at the pond, then at him again. "How much of that glowy fish water did you drink?"

"None—well, recently anyway." James shook his head. "Listen, you always thank the house elves, and you were friends with Remus even when he was just that skinny half-blood from a poor family that Sirius and I wouldn't talk to. You keep defending Snape even though he really is an arse. You always know what the right thing is, and how to make people feel better." James smiled. "Well, except me."

Lily stared at him, as if expecting the Polyjuice to wear off any second. "Wow," she said finally. "You're really not off your stroke at all."

"That wasn't a line," James insisted. "Really, my lines are much smoother and I usually don't stutter."

Finally, she returned his smile. "I believe you." Leaning forward, she brushed their lips together. James gave a muffled yelp of surprise. Lily paused, then flicked her tongue against his.

James nearly fell of the log. Instead, he opened his mouth and let Lily have her way with him. When she pulled back, he caught his breath and asked, a little desperately, "Do I still have to be a gentleman? Because, if so, I may need to go sit in that nice, cold pond for a while."

Lily shook her head. "Just remember, Potter, 'stop' is a brick wall."

"Okay," he squeaked. "Stop. Brick wall. Understood."

Lily leaned in again. James opened his mouth, but was too nervous and shivery to do much of anything else. Besides, he'd been told by the last girl that he'd kissed that his pipe-cleaner technique was not impressive, but he had no idea how to do it better. Lily traced the edge of his ear with one cool finger, and James was sure he felt that side of his brain shut down.

"Mr. Potter!"

"Nyah!" James jumped backwards, nearly falling off the end of the log, again.

Lily sat bolt upright. "Professor McGonagall!"

Said bringer of evil and wilting erections stood above them, hands on her hips. "What are you two doing out here?"

His survival instinct having been taken over by another basic and currently frustrated instinct, James answered back, "Has it really been so long for you that you have to ask?"

Oops. James beamed her a manic smile and hoped that insanity would be a good enough defense.

McGonagall tapped her wand in her palm. "We'll discuss this," she pointed her finger first at James, then at Lily, "later—when I've had time to calculate all the rules you have just broken and how many months of detention you have just earned. At the moment, Mr. Potter, you are required in Diagon Alley."

"Diagon Alley? What?"

McGonagall's jaw tightened. "There's been an incident there involving Mr. Snape."

---

Five hundred Galleons. That was the fine.

James didn't care. As far as he was concerned, that was a fair price for the chance to see Malfoy with his face messed up. His family had the money, and his mother had given him access to the Gringotts account so that he could get it.

But Snape had managed to simultaneously wreck his date with Lily, guarantee him what was likely to be a lifetime of detentions and interrupt the best kiss he'd ever had. Hell, he'd never even managed to do that before he was James' slave. The urge to half-strangle the greasy Slytherin and drop him into Hogwarts Lake from a broom was strong.

McGonagall led him to the administrator's office, but let him enter first. The first person he saw was a sallow, sweaty little man with stringy hair and watery eyes who was shuffling a small stack of papers across his desk. The second person he saw was Lucius Malfoy, sitting rather stiffly on a wooden bench with a swollen eye and blood on his silk robes. His delicate features were now lopsided from the swelling, and marred by a smattering of scrapes and bruises.

Huh. Well, maybe it was worth the detentions, at least, seeing Malfoy look like a pouting five year old hauled into the headmaster's office for fighting.

"James Potter?" greeted the squeaky little man. "Owner of..." He checked his paperwork. "The slave designated Snape?"

"That's me."

"I'm afraid your slave caused quite a scene a short while ago."

"Yeah, I've heard. What happened?"

"He went mad!" Malfoy declared from his bench. "I just went up to him to ask how he was getting along and he attacked me. A wild animal, that one. Ought to be put down, since Potter clearly can't control him."

James resisted the urge to flash a rude gesture in Malfoy's direction.

"Mr. Potter, you are lucky that the injuries sustained to Mr. Malfoy are minor, otherwise the ministry would have no choice but to put your slave down. As it is, he is henceforth banned from Diagon Alley and the surrounding area."

Well done, Snape. James hoped he'd at least got a wand and some new robes, but he wouldn't bet on it.

"There is also the matter of the fine."

"Right. Five hundred Galleons, right?" He dropped the Gringotts bag on the desk. The man looked a little startled, but he reached for it quickly with his pale, spidery hands. When he had counted the money, he withdrew a hefty stack of papers from a dusty cabinet. James went through nearly half a bottle of ink signing documents that all seemed to say the same thing.

At last the man called to the Auror standing next to McGonagall. The Auror looked a little relieved, as McGonagall appeared to be giving him an oral quiz while they waited. The administrator glanced once more over the paperwork and nodded. "Everything appears to be in order. I will release the slave back into your custody, but you'll have to take the Floo out, as he is no longer allowed in this area."

"That's it?" Lucius exclaimed, brandishing a bloody handkerchief. "The slave nearly murdered me in the street!"

The administrator cringed. "I'm afraid Ministry regulations don't allow for a stronger course of discipline when the injuries are so minor—"

"Minor? I was bleeding!"

"Did anyone check to see if it was red?" James asked. Malfoy fumed.

"Well," the administrator said as he began to dig through a cabinet that was even dustier than the first, "I believe there is some recourse available to you, Mr. Malfoy." He pulled a file from a drawer and sneezed through the dust cloud. "You may put in a request to discipline the slave yourself. I'm sure, under the circumstances, it will be approved. I have the paperwork right here..."

"Well bring it over here, then!" Lucius snatched the forms from the administrator's hands. James winced. He was sure the request would be cleared by the Ministry, and all instincts and past experience told him that Malfoy was a sadistic bastard.

The image of Snape's back, strips of bruise-blackened flesh next to the long, red furrows where the skin and been removed and the muscle exposed—any lingering annoyance with the other boy evaporated.

The Auror escorted him down the hall, away from the main entrance. A series of dark wooden doors with prominent, heavy locks stood in a row.

The Auror unlocked the first one, and stepped aside.

---

Snape sat on the wooden bunk, arms wrapped around his legs, and his pointed chin tucked between his bony knees. He leaned his side against the warm wall, enjoying the comfort of the subtle heating and cushioning charms cast all around the dim stone cell.

This cell was clearly meant for students who had gotten caught nicking sweets and bottles of Butterbeer—intimidating but not uncomfortable. It might have been terrifying to the spoiled brats he went to school with, but to someone who had spent the last three months in a cage a quarter of this size, freezing with the cold and burning with fever...it was nearly a haven.

He wanted to stay here, safe and warm and locked firmly away from the punishment that awaited him on the other side. He hadn't killed Malfoy, he was sure of that, but if he'd hurt him enough Lucius could order him maimed…or worse. And what Potter would do when he found out about the fine...and when the apothecary filed his complaint...

He had no sense of the time. He had heard McGonagall's shouts all the way through the corridor and the solid wooden door, but she appeared to have given up or gone hoarse. If he was lucky, she wouldn't be able to locate Potter for another day or so.

But, of course, he wasn't lucky. He knew it when he heard the booted feet stop outside his cell, and the keys scrape against the creaky old lock.

The door opened, revealing an Auror and Potter who stood with his arms crossed and a pinched expression on his face.

Hesitantly, Snape stood to greet his master. Potter looked him over. Snape wanted to ask him what his fate would be, but his throat was dry and tight, and he knew he didn't have the right to ask that question, anyway.

"Are you okay? You're not going to pass out, are you?"

Snape stiffened. "What?" he croaked.

"You. You're not hurt and you're not going to pass out, right?"

Snape swallowed and shook his head. He felt beaten and drained, but not filled with the mindless panic that had taken him earlier. Perhaps his body simply didn't have the energy for another fit right now.

"Okay," Potter said. "I'm here to take you back to Hogwarts. Madam Pomfrey will probably want to have a look at you."

Snape swallowed to clear what felt like a lump of scratchy cotton from his throat. "The Ministry is letting me go?"

Potter nodded. "Yeah. I had to pay a fine, and you won't be allowed back in Diagon Alley for a while, but since Malfoy had only minor injuries, there wasn't anything else they could do."

"Minor injuries," he repeated, irrationally annoyed that he hadn't done worse. "That's all?"

"Well, Malfoy doesn't think so, but, yeah. That's all."

"But...I kicked him as hard as I—" Snape stopped himself by nearly biting his tongue off.

Potter shrugged. "Well, you're not exactly in top form, are you? But Malfoy's still outside, if you really want to have another go at it."

Snape heard McGonagall clearing her throat from behind the door. Potter winced. "Well, maybe another day would be better. Besides, I don't want to have to spend another five hundred Galleons to bail your arse out of here." He stepped aside and tilted his head in the direction of the hall, a clear indication that Snape was to leave the cell.

He did so, but as he left the comforting four walls he felt the now familiar constriction of his chest and tremor in his finger tips. He forced himself to breath through it, and forced himself to think. A five hundred Galleon fine—nobody would spend that on a slave they intended to maim or kill in a short time. He might be punished—he knew he would be—but it would probably be mild enough for him to be back in classes on Monday.

It was a cold comfort, but his chest loosened enough for him to breathe easily. His hands still shook, but he curled them into balls and shoved them in his pockets.

He followed Potter, who paid the fee to retrieve the supplies he had managed to get. His master grimaced. "You didn't manage to get a wand or robes, it looks like."

Snape shook his head, biting his lip. Ollivander sold the best wands in Britain, but he knew he would be able to find a wand elsewhere, if Potter allowed.

Potter studied his face for a moment. A strange look passed over his face and he said in a voice that could have been comforting, "It's all right. My Mum's meeting us at Hogwarts. She'll sort things out when we get there."

Potter's mother? Snape felt his muscles go tense again, but he tried to keep the fear off his face. He was silent as he threw the green powder into the fire and stepped into the flame.


	9. Chapter 9

As usual, Snape landed flat on his back, choking on the ash from the floo. Potter was already dusting himself off onto the headmaster's rug, but froze when a tall woman, her hair as dark as her face was pale, strode into view. Then he started to squirm like a toddler when the woman began to dust off his back.

Snape didn't bother getting to his feet. The strange, tall woman bore enough of a resemblance to Potter that he could safely assume that she was Mrs. Potter, his new mistress. Accordingly, he rolled to his knees, let his forehead rest on the carpet and did his best not to sneeze as the ash from Potter's robe found its way up his rather overlong nose.

The sounds of patting, sneezing and Potter's plaintive whines, "But Mum!" ended abruptly. He could feel their eyes on him, prickling his skin, raising the hair on the back of his neck and making him that much more desperate to sneeze.

"You must be Severus," said a low-pitched woman's voice. "James mentioned you had a bad habit of doing that." Doing what? thought Snape. Don't sneeze!

"Why don't you get your nose out of the carpet and come sit in the chair?"

Snape slowly picked himself off the floor. About half way to his feet he lost the battle with his nose and sneezed into his arm -- which was also, unfortunately, covered in ash -- but he managed to keep his expression neutral as he sat in the chair farthest from the Headmaster's desk.

A moment later the fireplace flared again, and a grey tabby tumbled out, rolling nimbly to her feet and flowing into the stiff-backed, angular form of Professor McGonagall. Miraculously dust-free, she strode to stand behind the headmaster. Snape gulped when he realized that there wasn't a person in this room he hadn't disobeyed or disappointed.

A cup of tea floated from the Headmaster's desk to his hands and he clutched at it. Keeping his gaze pointed downward, he watched Potter's mother out of the corner of his eye. He might technically belong to James, but all of James' property belonged to his parents until he came of age. It was her he would need to make a case to, if he managed to come up with a case at all.

"To start off," she said, her eyes catching Snape's, despite his attempt to avoid that, "are you all right?"

Snape nodded, giving up and looking her in the eye. "Yes, Mistress."

"Mrs. Potter will do fine," she corrected. "You look like you have some bruises on your knuckles."

Snape sucked in his lip.

"Why don't you tell me what happened?"

Because he'd rather keep the skin on his back firmly attached. But they were going to find out the truth one way or another -- he might as well tell his side now that they were playing nice.

He told as close to the truth as he dared, only skipping over his intention to nick potion supplies, and trying to paint his actions against the shop owner as defense of the Potter's property.

Mrs. Potter nodded at the appropriate places, but her face was unreadable. Snape didn't know if she was listening or if she was imagining what the Headmaster would look like with his robes off until she asked, her voice deliberately mild, "Why did you hit Lucius Malfoy?"

Snape's mind skittered to a halt. He hadn't planned this out. He'd been panicked, exhausted and had expected to be punished first and interrogated after. He couldn't twist the answer to suite himself if he didn't know what the truth was. He couldn't say he didn't know because then they would think he was unstable and unsafe. He couldn't say he had done it out of anger or vengeance because they would still think he was unstable and unsafe. And he couldn't say that he had done it all out of fear because when they forced the Veritaserum on him, he would admit that he had lied.

The first punch had been at least partly terror. But afterwards...

Four sets of eyes were watching him intently; Snape felt naked and cornered. He should be able to talk his way out of it, he had to, but it was as if his mind had simply frozen, locked up. He wasn't sure he could even open his mouth and speak, let alone think of something to say.

Something flickered behind Mrs. Potter's eyes. "Do you know why you did it?"

Knowing it was the wrong thing to do, Snape slowly shook his head. Would she decide he was too dangerous to keep at Hogwarts? Would she decide he was too dangerous to keep at all? Oh Merlin, what if she sent him back to the Malfoys with her apologies?

He didn't want to die that way.

But Mrs. Potter merely nodded at him and turned to the headmaster and the professor. "As he was in the care of a Hogwarts professor at the time of both incidents, I see this primarily as a school matter. If any complaints are filed through the ministry because of Mr. Snape's status, I'll handle them. I would prefer he be treated as a regular student."

Snape sat stunned by her generosity -- and a tiny bit resentful at being called just a regular student.

McGonagall studied him, arms crossed over her chest and eyes peering over her glasses. "I do seem to recall asking you to refrain from wandering off. Though I -- mistakenly, I now see -- assumed that your own good judgment would keep you from doing something so foolish as attacking your fellow shoppers."

Snape ducked his head and pulled at the frayed edges of his sleeve.

"However, I should not have left you to fend for yourself, considering your state of mind. You may report tomorrow morning for what will be the first of what I assure you will be a long month of detentions."

Snape's head jerked up. A month? That was it? He swiveled to look at Mrs. Potter who was nodding in agreement. "That sounds fair, Professor. But I don't want his punishment to interfere with his catching up to his classmates; I know he started the year quite late."

"That's fine. I'm sure Mr. Snape will find adequate time to keep up with his studies -- it might even keep him out of trouble."

"Speaking of trouble," Mrs. Potter said, giving James a cool glare, "I believe my son managed to make some of his own?"

"And managed to drag a young lady into it with him."

"Yes, that does sound likely."

James cleared his throat. "Before you ground me for the rest of the century, you might want to come up with a way for Snape to finish getting his school stuff. I don't think those robes will hold out until another Hogsmeade weekend, even if he were allowed in Diagon Alley anymore."

"That's manageable," Mrs. Potter said, looking at Snape. "I'm taking a portkey out of Britain for some shopping tomorrow. You may accompany me if Professor McGonagall wouldn't mind starting your detention a day late."

"Of course," the professor agreed. "James and Lily will be providing more than enough free labor tomorrow to have the school sparkling in time for Monday classes."

"Severus," said the headmaster, "Why don't you go tell Lily that she can come in now, and then check in with Madam Pomfrey?"

---

Madam Pomfrey spotted the bruises on his fist with a rather disturbing quickness. She raised an eyebrow while reaching for the Bruise-Be-Gone.

Snape shrugged. "I didn't realize that hitting someone could hurt you."

"It does take a bit of practice." She dabbed a bit of the cream on each hand, letting him rub it in.

And the extraordinarily kind school nurse knew this how? Snape tilted his head and raised an eyebrow.

"Brothers -- a whole bundle of them." She flicked her wand, starting a series of diagnostic spells. "And a bit of advice: aim for the soft parts. If you hit them in the diaphragm or the delicate bits, I promise that it will hurt them more than it hurts you. And there's the added bonus of leaving no evidence."

"I know. I don't think there's a patch of me that hasn't been punched or kicked or stepped on at some point. Though I think I understand now why Lucius usually avoided punching me in the face." He flexed his injured hand to emphasize the point.

"Of course, he wouldn't want to get his own knuckles bloody."

Snape was a little surprised at the simmering anger that leaked out of Madam Pomfrey's usual calm professionalism. He knew it wasn't directed at him, but the thought that it might be for him was...extraordinary.

Warmed by the hospital wing and reassured by Madam Pomfrey's presence, Snape felt the fear and dread that had been keeping him upright seep out of him. By the time Pomfrey was done checking him over, Snape's eyes were drooping and his body slanting towards the bed.

"You could stay here tonight, if you think you'd sleep better."

Snape shook his head and stood up, knowing that if he stayed sitting, he would be unconscious in minutes. "I can't have Potter thinking that I'm using the hospital wing to avoid him. He's been generous so far about letting me come here, and I don't want to give him a reason to stop."

Madam Pomfrey adjusted the collar of his robe for him -- a gesture that he'd gotten so used to that he didn't even flinch anymore. "Did James talk to you at all? About what he expects from you?"

Snape gave a bitter laugh. "Yeah. And if he hadn't been lying through his teeth I might have considered feeling grateful."

"Lying?" Madam Pomfrey prompted. Her voice had that controlled, even tone that meant she was 'managing' him. But he couldn't think of a sufficiently sarcastic retort -- another indication of how exhausted he was. He simply answered, "He said something that couldn't be true, which makes me believe that none of it is."

"What did he say?"

Snape hesitated. Madam Pomfrey obviously had little concept of the continual degradation and pain that was inevitable for slaves. And, honestly, he didn't want her to.

"Snape, what did he say?"

"That he wouldn't hurt me, physically. That he wouldn't let anyone have me or use my body. And I was so desperate that I almost believed him."

"Why didn't you believe him?" she asked, her voice neutral.

"Because! I'm a slave, he's my master. I'm not anyone's idea of a good pleasure slave, and I'll believe that I'm not Potter's cup of tea, but there are plenty of people foolish enough to pay in cash or favors for what they couldn't get otherwise. Especially because slaves can't protest and usually don't fight back." Unconsciously he raised his wrists as if they were bound.

"That doesn't mean James is going to rent you out to them."

"Of course it does! I'm his slave, there's no reason for him to turn down a profit from my suffering -- it's what he must have dreamed of since he first dangled me upside down by the lake."

"Snape -- check your premise." Madam Pomfrey began packing away the supplies she used to treat him. "You want to be a scholar; part of that is only drawing conclusions when you have the evidence to back it up, and constantly rechecking your theories. You're failing on both counts here."

Snape had one foot in the direction of the door, but now his feathers were ruffled and he turned to challenge Madam Pomfrey. "What are you talking about?"

"James. You're operating on the assumption that he still hates you and wishes you ill. But look at the evidence objectively, and try to understand Potter's behavior, both before and after he found out you were a slave."

Snape opened his mouth, but Madam Pomfrey cut him off. "Don't react emotionally; think." She made a shooing motion towards the door. "And don't stand here and argue with me. Get some to sleep and try to get some rest. Merlin knows you'll never listen to what I have to say until you've figured most of it out for yourself."

---

James arrived for his detention in the trophy room twenty minutes early, nearly shocking Filch into spilling the bucket of cleaning supplies all over his desk. He collected the bucket of polish and rags and then set about securing the corridor with a chime that would tinkle softly when anyone approached.

He lowered the lights and opened his pockets to let the fairies take their positions around the room, preening and posing. He set up Moony's modified record player to play something soft and smooth. The scratchy sound of the record added a strange huskiness to the music, which Sirius had assured him was romantic.

Lily, as was her style, arrived almost five minutes late with her own bucket of polish and rags. James heard the chime and threw open the trophy room door.

"Lily Evans!" He gave a deep bow, the tips of his tufts brushing the polished stone. "My gratitude for joining me on our second date. I welcome you to my humble palace -- humble, though it is gilded in gold."

"Yeah, gilded in gold we have to clean...did you say 'our second date'?" Lily's ever incredulous eyebrow rose up in an attempt to meet her hairline.

"Of course. What else would we be doing in such an elegant suite?"

"Being punished for our first date?"

"No," James gasped in his most appalling French accent, "do not say! Punished? By spending time with the handsome and charming Monsieur Prongs? By being gifted with the responsibility of examining and restoring priceless artifacts from another era?" He spread his arms around to indicate the old, bronze trophies and metal, their gold leaf chipping off with age.

Lily was still not impressed. "Potter, aren't you a little too old to be playing make believe?"

James quirked an eyebrow. "We live in a magic castle and one of our teachers turns into a cat just by thinking about it. For all you know, this room is lined with gold, and only spelled to look like a forgotten trophy room. Do you really think we'll ever be too old for make believe?"

Lily paused in the act of adding polish to her rag. "James, that was almost existential."

"Exi-what?" James shook his head. "Never mind, was that a compliment?"

"Maybe. But you made a good point," Lily admitted, "I give you permission to make believe this is a second date."

"I appreciate it," James said, mock bowing with a grin. "So what do you think we should do for our third date?"

---

Snape stumbled bleary-eyed into the dorm. He was relieved to find it empty. He didn't have to bow and wait for Potter to punish him or use him or tell him that the sale was all a joke and send him back to Lucius for another round of torture and near-starvation and ruined hopes.

Something told him that he wasn't going to be allowed much sleep tonight, so he was glad to crawl under the covers and bury his head beneath a pillow. He didn't think being asleep when Potter wanted him would increase his punishment, and he might as well be hung for a Phoenix as a Snidget.

He breathed deeply and prayed for sleep.

---

Snape opened his eyes with a sudden gasp and the feeling that he had rammed full-tilt into consciousness. He couldn't remember anything about the dream he'd just escaped, but his sheets were soaked through and he could hear his pulse pounding like tribal drums in his ears.

He was still trying to shake off the feeling of dread and confusion when Colby popped onto the foot of the bed. Snape nearly hit him with his pillow. The house elf merely bowed and offered him a glass of water.

Snape took the water, but it wasn't until he croaked, "what time is it?" that he realized how dry his throat was. The water felt good, washing away the sour taste on his tongue.

"The time was three-thirty in the morning when Colby left the kitchen."

"What?" Snape peered through the curtains on his bed and verified that, indeed, there were four other motionless lumps in the beds around him. But why hadn't Potter woken him up?

Madam Pomfrey's advice niggled at his brain, but he refused to think about it right now. Instead, he got up and snuck out of the room for a shower, rinsing away the sweat and the dirt and the fear of the previous day—though not, unfortunately, the stubborn, greasy oil that clung to his hair. That was more effort than it was worth.

He felt tingly and awake after using most of Gryffindor's hot water supply, probably because he'd slept for almost ten hours with only one nightmare. If hitting Lucius was all it took for a peaceful sleep, maybe he should have done it sooner. He probably would have, if the Gaius hadn't stopped him.

Still, there wasn't much to do at four in the morning, with both the library and the hospital wing closed and his new books buried in a squeaky-hinged trunk that was surrounded by people who were probably dreaming of new ways to torture him.

Frankly, he was bored. It wasn't a feeling he was used to -- fear and dread tended to drown out any other emotions, and it had been awhile since he'd had time to himself without several conflicting demands and the constant threat of violence if he failed. Potter might still punish him for yesterday, but it couldn't be that bad if he had to be ready to go shopping today, and be in classes tomorrow.

He wondered the halls for a few hours, poking his head into the nooks and crannies of the castle he had never had time to explore before. In the early morning, Hogwarts was cool and quiet, and the faint, glowing light of the approaching dawn gave it a peaceful, settled atmosphere. Which clashed mightily with the room full of jewel-encrusted chamber pots, but that was Hogwarts.

He gave up exploring, his muscles a little too stiff from their panic-fueled exercise the day before to appreciate wandering around with no apparent aim.

He headed down the tower to the Gargoyle that guarded Headmaster's office. He could give the Gargoyle the password and the guardian would let him up when Dumbledore came down to his office.

To his surprise, the Gargoyle let him up immediately, and a moment later he found himself standing in front of the broad, untidy desk. Dumbledore peered at him over his glasses and through the steam of whatever was in his mug. The mug, Snape noticed, depicted oddly shaped pillars being knocked down by a large, black ball.

"Good space morning, Severus. You're up rather early." Snape could have sworn he heard just a hint of grumpiness in that eternally cheerful voice. "What can I do for you?"

Snape shrugged. "I couldn't sleep anymore. I'm supposed to meet Mrs. Potter here in a few hours anyway."

"I see."

Snape hesitated returning the question, but Dumbledore usually didn't mind if he was a bit forward. "If I may ask, what are you doing in your office so early?"

Dumbledore gestured to the mess of parchment scattered across his desk. "Students aren't the only ones who have to stay up all night writing reports that they put off while doing more useful things."

Snape had no trouble imagining that. Dumbledore had the kind of quirky genius that took delight in ignoring social expectations and ruffling the feathers of pompous oafs. Snape, for one, enjoyed both habits, particularly when Dumbledore had cheerfully ignored any expectation that he should treat Snape as anything other than a particularly bright, if sometimes troublesome, student. It had ruffled Lucius' feathers for years.

"So, Severus, why couldn't you sleep?"

Snape frowned. "I fell asleep right after dinner. I woke up early and I didn't feel like waiting around for Potter to punish me for yesterday."

"You are quite convinced the worst is going to happen, aren't you?"

Snape sighed. He really wished people would stop trying to have this conversation with him. "That is what I usually assume, and I'm usually right."

"There is such a thing as a self-fulfilling prophecy."

"And there is such a thing as preparing for the worst."

"I believe that proverb ends with 'hope for the best,'" Dumbledore pointed out.

"I only remembered the important part."

Suddenly the headmaster broke out into a grin, showing teeth so white and perfect that they couldn't possibly be the originals. "You're rather insuppressibly perverse, aren't you?"

By the time Snape had decided to take that as a compliment, Dumbledore had summoned Snape's own potions text and a cup of tea into Snape's hands. "Now stop arguing with me -- it's pleasantly distracting, and I chose to work at this hour specifically to avoid such things."

Snape was about half way through his reading assignment, and the breakfast Dumbledore had summoned, when the office door grated open. A low, melodic voice asked, "Good morning, Headmaster. I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"

Snape spun around. "Mistress!" He started to kneel, but a pointed throat clearing brought him back to his feet. He offered a deep bow instead of a full submission.

To his surprise, Mrs. Potter gave a nod of acknowledgement. "Good Morning, Snape...or do you prefer Severus?"

She was letting him choose? Snape suspiciously prodded the question for traps, finally deciding that this was probably a test of his submission. "Whatever pleases you, Mis--Mrs. Potter."

"It pleases me for you to state your preference when I ask it; I'm not fond of guessing games."

Snape paused, trying to feel out the trap in that question. He couldn't, so he answered honestly. "Snape, then, please. It's what I'm used to."

"Very well, Snape. Are you ready? Do you have a list of what you'll need?"

Snape nodded. "Yes."

"May I see it?"

"I have it memorized. But all I really need is a wand and potions supplies."

Mrs. Potter eyed him up and down. "What about robes?"

"I bought robes yesterday."

"Then why are you wearing that?" She poked a finger in the direction of his robes, making Snape flinch back, speechless. "We're not going shopping in a swamp, in case there was any misconception."

"Mrs. Potter," Snape admitted, face coloring, "these are my nice robes."

Mrs. Potter looked him over again, her eye even more critical. "Well, we'll just have to fix that. A wand, potions supplies and a wardrobe. Is there anything else you can think of?"

"No, Mistress."

"Then," she said, standing, "let us be off on our adventure. How is your Italian?"

---

Snape blinked as he stood up, releasing the feathered cat toy that had served as a Portkey. He was surprised to see himself surrounded by rolling hills and to have to squint at the too-bright sun. It was clearly an hour or so later than it was at Hogwarts -- Snape always found sudden time zone changes dizzying.

"Welcome to Italy," Mrs. Potter said. She pointed down the grassy hill they were standing on to a giant, green-covered lake. The surface was so thick with algae that, from this distance, it looked like it was covered in green marzipan. "That's Tortona, home of the best silk and sand-dollar seedlings money can buy."

Snape looked dubiously at the lake. He noticed a large Muggle sign posting by the lake that depicted a skull and crossbones. He wasn't sure how the meaning of such a symbol translated from Wizarding English to Muggle Italian, but he had an inkling that in most cultures, pictures of people's internal parts were not an invitation for a quick dip.

He didn't question his masters. Ever. It wasn't worth the pain. Although he wasn't sure if the pain of punishment would be worse than the pain of having his skin melt off or sprout feathers or any of the other horrible things that Muggle pollution was rumored to do.

He really hoped that this shopping trip was not a cover for some research project Potter -- any one of the Potters -- was conducting.

He'd nearly worried a hole in his lip when Mrs. Potter began walking down a set of crumbling stone steps set into the side of the hill. He followed out of training and obedience, but when she began to walk into the lake, her robe swirling elegantly around her, Snape was never more glad for the etiquette that required slaves to follow three steps behind their masters. He was hoping that if Mrs. Potter started to melt, his geas would refuse to let him get into the water.

She didn't melt, but simply walked deeper and deeper into the lake. Snape took a breath and followed, grimacing as the water rushed in through the holes in his boots, soaking his socks and trousers. He was hoping that this would be like the wall at King's cross, but instead it appeared that Potter's mother was, in fact, both insane and suicidal.

It wasn't until he was up to his neck in foul, green water that he realized that he wasn't floating. His skin was telling him rather emphatically that he was soaking in soiled water that was beginning to make it tingle unpleasantly, but his body didn't seem to weight any less.

Having lost sight of Mrs. Potter, he swallowed his panic, closed his eyes, and stepped off the ledge he could feel beneath his boots.

...and stumbled as his feet landed on hard cobblestones, and his skin registered a warm breeze through his dry robe.

His eyes flew open. Mrs. Potter was watching him, the hint of a smile on her face. Behind her was the end of the alcove they were standing in, which opened into a bustling main street.

"You're a brave boy. My own husband and son refused to follow me the first time."

Snape almost answered that he was the opposite of brave; he was more terrified of punishment than drowning. But he remembered who he was talking to in time, and kept his mouth shut.

"If you've got something to say, say it. If nothing else, remember that we're in Italy."

Snape was confused for a moment, but then the realization hit him with the force of an Unforgivable. He was in Italy, one of a handful of European states that had outlawed slavery centuries ago. He was, in the eyes of Italian law, free. Nobody could beat him or whip him or rape him as long as he was here. Granted he was still bound by magic, and Mrs. Potter could do whatever she wished for him once she got him out of the state, but for the next few hours he had all of the rights and protections of a free foreign citizen.

He should have felt elation, excitement, something. He should have at least felt different, but all he could feel was an all-encompassing emptiness, and a growing ball of hopelessness weighing in his belly.

He was in Italy, but he was still following at the heels of his master's mother, obedient as a well-trained puppy, terrified to offend. Slavery was ingrained in him deeper than the geas that bound him, ingrained in every moment of torture and humiliation and terror that had stripped him of any will to resist. He was a weak, cowardly slave, and a temporary change in legal status couldn't change that.

He dropped his eyes and blanked his face, shaking his head slightly. He could feel Mrs. Potter staring at him, and flinched internally at her sigh.

---

Mrs. Potter made him walk either next to her or in front of her. Snape wondered if this was her way of making sure he didn't run, although they both knew it wouldn't do him any good if he did.

The first stop was the wand shop. To Snape's relief, rail-thin man behind the counter spoke English, albeit with a strange accent.

"You here for a wand, boy?"

Snape looked up at Mrs. Potter to see if he should respond. She gave him a little nod and a push on the shoulder. "Yes, sir."

"Good." The man looked him over, black eyes cataloguing ever detail. He frowned. "You already have a wand."

Snape cocked his head, a little surprised and impressed. "It was...taken from me."

"You didn't hurt nobody with it."

Snape shook his head, although he got the feeling that the man was telling him, not asking.

"You've been kept on a tight leash and you're just now being let off, ya?"

"That's...a way of explaining it."

The man stroked the small, spiny cluster of black hair on his chin. "You're so used to pushing against something, that when there's nothing to push against, you fall on your face, is that right?"

Snape's hands twitched, resentment pushing at his throat. He couldn't say what he wanted to say, not with his mistress here, and not to his last chance of ever holding a wand again.

The man, infuriatingly, seemed to take his silence as agreement.

"What you need, boy, is a wand that will push back. I could make you a new one, but I think you need something a little tougher. You need a wand that would break rather than bend."

Snape breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth. He wanted a wand. At this point, he almost didn't care if it had been pulled from the rectum of a wild boar. If it worked, and he could do magic with it, he would be satisfied.

The man pulled a dusty box from the bottom shelf. The wand he pulled out had seen better decades. Handle shiny from years of use, tip dry and in desperate need of a sanding and finish marred by a long scorch mark down the side, it looked the way Snape sometimes felt.

Unimpressed, Snape wondered if the man was trying to unload his discount merchandise. "When was this thing last used?"

"About a hundred and fifty years ago, when its owner ended up on the wrong side of a dragon. I think it will like you."

Snape picked it up, testing its weight. Battered as it looked, both the magical and physical balance was excellent. He pointed it, focusing on a cheap wooden chair in the corner of the room. His palm tingled as he cast the first spell that came to mind. The magic surged through him, flicking through the air with the force and speed of a dragon's tongue, snapping the chair cleanly in half with an earsplitting crack. The two sides of the chair teetered for a moment, before falling on top of each other.

Mrs. Potter gave a small nod. "I think that this one might do. But a hundred and fifty years on the shelf...I can't offer a Knut more than fifteen Galleons.

Snape stepped back, mildly impressed with Mrs. Potter sheer bluster in her bargaining. He was fairly certain that the man already knew she was going to buy the wand, but she hung on with the tenacity of a bulldog.

When they walked out of the story, Snape was happily testing the grip on the wand, and Mrs. Potter was nearly strutting.

Gathering potions ingredients from the free-standing stalls that dotted one section of the town was an adventure, and watching Mrs. Potter bargain with the vendors was a sight to see. What she lacked in tact, she made up in tenacity, fueled by genuine enjoyment. Surprisingly, the vendors seemed to enjoy it just as much, some of them even greeting her by name when they saw her.

When they entered a robe shop, the portly shop owner shouted delightedly in Italian. A moment later, he fought his way past two man-sized piles of fabric to bow before Mrs. Potter and place a kiss on her hand.

Mrs. Potter, seeming more amused than impressed, exchanged affectionate pleasantries in Italian. Snape was left to examine the shop. It looked nothing like the shop in Diagon Alley. Fabric was stacked against every available wall space, and against one window. Naked mannequins were braced against each stack, giving Snape the impression that they were all just moments away from being crushed by giant rolls of cloth.

He wondered what that would sound like in the Daily Prophet.

Before his mind could wander too far away from his body, Mrs. Potter called him over to the flat, round platform towards the back of the shop.

He wondered if he was supposed to help her up. Instead, Mrs. Potter waved him onto the platform. Snape glanced at the shop owner, who seemed to be petting a long roll of yellow measuring tape. He looked back at Mrs. Potter.

"Up," she said, shooing him in that direction. He stepped backwards, ending up on the platform. Instantly, the yellow measuring tape bolted out of the shop owner's hands and wrapped itself around his wrists. Before Snape could panic, it had moved on to his waist, his shoulders and the rest of his body.

He was being measured. Why? He was a slave; he didn't need fancy robes. Hell, Lucius had argued that he didn't need robes at all, although Calligulus had put his foot down on that issue.

Finally, the tape unwound itself from Snape's ankles and slithered over to the shop keeper's feet. The shop keeper was frowning at a black, leather notebook.

He grumbled in the general direction of Mrs. Potter, who gave him a sympathetic look and a long reply.

"He said he could have gotten the same measurements from a skeleton about your height," Mrs. Potter translated, "and that there was no point in buying you new robes if I intended to starve you to death."

Snape frowned, a little offended. He'd gained back nearly two stone from the time Calligulus had started preparing him for sale with a battery of healing, restorative and nutritive potions. They had made him constantly nauseous for ten days, but they'd pulled him back from the edge of death and plumped him up enough that he really didn't look like an animated skeleton.

"You were starved, weren't you?"

Snape opened his mouth to deny it, but then remembered who he was talking to. It would be stupid to lie. "Yes," he admitted.

"How much weight do you have to gain back? There really isn't any point in fitting you for a robe if you're just going to split the seams by the end of the term."

Snape looked down at his hands to examine the bones and knuckles that jutted out under his pale skin. "Not much more," he answered. "I don't -- I've always been...boney. But I might start a growth spurt soon."

"We'll just get you one fitted dress robe, then. The rest can come off the rack. How do you feel about silk?"

She must have seen his expression. "It won't ruin us to buy you a decent wardrobe," she told him gently.

Snape swallowed. It wouldn't have ruined the Malfoys, either, but that was hardly the point. He was a slave.

"Are you alright, Snape?"

He wasn't. He wasn't sure if she was really so impossibly nice or if she was just fitting in with the natives. Worse, he didn't know what to expect or how to act or if he was doing something wrong that he would be punished for later. He didn't even know how to answer her fucking question in a way that wouldn't get him into trouble.

He felt his heart start to pound and all he wanted was to get out of here now. He tried to keep his face neutral, but Mrs. Potter must have seen the panic under his skin.

"Let's go get you some air, all right?"

Three steps behind had never been harder. Snape managed to keep from bolting out of the shop, but it wasn't until he had the shop behind him that he felt his body start to settle down. He followed Mrs. Potter through a series of tiny side streets towards what looked to be the center of the town. There was a bench and a fountain. Mrs. Potter took his shoulders in her hands and guided him to sit down on the bench. She straightened her already straight robe and sat down next to him.

She let him sit in silence for awhile, which gave him the chance to breathe deeply and imagine that he was somewhere small and tight and hidden, instead of sitting next to his new master's mother on a park bench expecting the sky to fall on his head.

It worked until Mrs. Potter said, quietly, "We would send you to school here if we could, but the Italian schools won't accept foreign students."

Snape looked up at her, startled. "The geas..."

"Requires you to have contact with your master every two weeks, I know. But there's regular Portkey service in most cities; there's no reason you couldn't visit that often."

Snape shook his head, but Mrs. Potter kept talking.

"You can't stay here now, but when you've finished your apprenticeship I'm sure some of the research laboratories would be more than happy to accept you. If you already know Latin, Italian won't be difficult to learn." She smiled, gently. "You might have to get a tan, though."

Snape looked over the city. A young boy trying to skip rocks in the fountain paused to smile at him.

Snape started sobbing. Rough, wheezing sobs as snot and tears wet his face. He tried to hunch over, but Mrs. Potter put her arm across his shoulders and let him lean against her. He wanted to pull away, but he didn't want to lose the feeling of being pressed in, small and safe. The boy throwing rocks into the fountain stared at him wide-eyed, before running in the other direction.

For some reason, that hurt so badly that he felt his chest was caving in. He wanted to cover his face but he was afraid to move and afraid to turn his head, lest he get snot on Mrs. Potter's pretty blue robes. So he just sat there, crying and wishing that he could, just for a minute, know what it felt like to be free.


	10. Chapter 10

A/N1: There's going to be some Snape torture in this chapter, folks. It's not too graphic, but if you really, really can't stand that sort of thing...just stop reading when Snape gets to the Potter's house. You also might want to read the last few paragraphs. Hope you enjoy.

* * *

Snape finally got himself under control. First the sobs, then the tears and finally he just leaned his forehead against Mrs. Potter's bony shoulder, quietly waiting for her to release him. He noticed, now that he could breath through his nose, that she smelled good. She had that earthy greenhouse smell that made him think of warm, safe, hidden places.

The arm around his shoulder finally retreated and Snape sat up, rubbing his face with the palms of his hands.

"Do you still want to go back to the school?" Mrs. Potter asked.

Snape took a breath and shook his head. He did want to go back, but he wanted to know what a clean, new shirt felt like against his skin even more, if that was still on offer. "We could finish with the tailor. It's the last stop anyway."

"Are you sure? Right now you look as if you belong in St. Mungo's, not the Italian shopping district."

Snape could imagine that. He knew what he looked like when he cried, his sallow skin covered with red splotches and his eyes bloodshot.

"I'm all right. Could we—could we get this done, please?" he asked.

"Very well. We'll make this quick."

It was quick. Mrs. Potter led him to a different store and let him choose from the rack, under the tailor's disapproving glower. The robes were easy, but Mrs. Potter insisted on shirts, trousers, pajamas and underwear. When he ran out of energy and interest after a few shirts—all black—Mrs. Potter quickly turned him into a half-dazed mannequin. A few more shirts in grey and maroon (for Quidditch season, Mrs. Potter explained) and a pile of other necessities that he had never had and Snape was finally allowed to sit down. Mrs. Potter and the tailor arranged for the wardrobe to be delivered.

They took the Portkey home. Snape grasped the end of the orange, mouse-shaped cat toy and wondered if this pleasant dream of courtesy and kindness would end the moment they were back on British soil.

He stumbled as the Portkey spat him out. Mrs. Potter grabbed his shoulders to steady him.

That answered that.

It occurred to him, as he walked through the sweeping iron gates, that this may have been why Potter had been so lenient with him. Maybe Mrs. Potter had forbidden roughing up the merchandise. That made more sense than Potter's sudden change of heart. Young men didn't stop being bloodthirsty savages all on their own.

He had almost worked up the courage to ask when a grimfaced headmaster strode out of the front entrance to meet them. Potter hurried behind him, white-faced and clutching a rolled-up parchment.

"Mum!" he yelled. "It's the Ministry! Malfoy's after Snape."

---

Snape, hunched over in a chair in the headmaster's office, decided that all he really wanted was for today to end. Until Potter's tactless announcement, the day hadn't been going badly, but so much had happened that he needed time to understand.

It looked like he wouldn't get it.

The headmaster stood in front of his desk to talk to Mrs. Potter. He handed the scroll to her.

Mrs. Potter's thin lips curled. "The minister who signed this doesn't even work on Sundays. Merlin knows who Calligulus bribed to push this through."

"More likely it was Lucius," the headmaster pointed out. "He has a position within the Ministry and petty revenge is reason enough for him to go through the trouble. Calligulus, on the other hand, always has a more practical agenda."

The headmaster sighed and crossed his arms. "I've contacted a few sources, and the claim is legal."

"I'll speak to some friends as well, but if the claim itself is legal, there isn't much we can do. Nobody will take a bribe against a Malfoy."

Snape stared up at the two adults. Were they really talking about using bribes and favors to keep him out of the Malfoys' hands? He glanced over at Potter, who was in the chair across from him. There was no mockery, no glee in the handsome face.

Potter eventually noticed and met Snape's eyes. Snape dropped his gaze to the floor.

He heard shuffling and scraping. When he looked up, he found that James had dragged his chair closer, so that his knees were almost touching Snape's.

"Hey," he said.

Snape didn't respond.

"Do you know what's going on?" Potter asked.

Snape nodded.

"Good. I don't."

Oh joy, he would get to explain the circumstances of his own torture. "My former master filed a complaint with the Ministry. They have granted him the right to punish me—or, more properly, to seek retribution."

"What's he going to do, give you a bloody nose too?"

Snape stared at Potter. The bastard really was as daft as he looked. "He'll do whatever it is he wants, provided I'm able to perform my duties within two days. It's—it will happen next Friday night."

"That's...barbaric."

It was almost mild, actually. Malfoy must have settled for a light round of torture to get it pushed through so quickly. Impatient bastard.

He didn't say that, of course. Despite both Potters' reassurances, he had no intention of laying out exactly how barbaric the laws governing his own life were. Potter really seemed to think it was unusual to torture a slave.

Mrs. Potter and the headmaster had gone quiet, staring at each other with discouraged looks on their faces.

Finally Mrs. Potter shooed her son out of his chair and sat down in front of Snape.

"You all right?" she asked.

"Yes," Snape lied.

"And I'm Merlin's apprentice. But we need to discuss this now, I'm sorry."

"Okay."

"We have the option of either choosing the location or the...punishment. You need to decide which."

Oddly, Snape didn't even consider that this might be a trick, that Mrs. Potter would do the opposite of what he said just to torture him. "Location," he answered, voice suddenly hoarse. "Please, if you're really giving me the choice, then please, don't make me go back to the Malfoys. I wouldn't survive walking through those doors again."

---

James led Snape back to the dorms, not for the first time wishing there was some kind of bridge connecting the towers. It wasn't that he minded the exercise, but going down the stairs and then up in utter silence with Snape made the walk stretch forever.

He felt the urge to make jokes, small talk. He was uncomfortable with silence, always had been. But what could he say? Nothing he had ever experienced would come close to what Snape had dealt with.

He thought back to the worst punishment he'd ever received. Five swats to his trouser-covered backside. He had stolen a failed potion from his father when he was six or seven. He had fed it to the family dog, expecting it to do something silly and spectacular like all the potions his dad had showed him.

Instead, the dog had died, nearly turning herself inside out choking on the toxic potion. James and just stood there, stunned. By the time he broke free of the shock and ran for help, it was too late.

So his father had turned him over his knee for the first and only time in James' life, and then made him help bury the dog and care for her half-grown puppies.

When he'd exposed the slave mark on Snape's hip he'd realized what his dad had been trying to tell him. He just wished his dad had used terms clear enough to penetrate his thick skull.

Foolish actions on his part could result in horrible consequences to those who couldn't protect themselves.

At least this time, with Snape, he'd saved the other boy. More or less.

When they reached the dorm room, James spotted the small mountain of packages on Snape's bed, probably the result of today's shopping trip. Snape picked up one package—a wool cloak it looked like—and hefted it in his hands. He stroked the material the same way a scared child would pet a stuffed animal.

James felt like a prat for leaving Snape to fend for himself the last few weeks. Worse, he felt like an awkward prat when he tried to strike up a conversation.

"Hey, are you hungry? We could probably still get lunch before the food's gone."

Snape turned quickly to face him. He warily searched James' face, but didn't seem to find what he was looking for.

"Or...do you want a nap or something? I could leave you alone and send up a house-elf with some food?"

Snape was clutching the folded cloak to his chest now, and the unconscious gesture made something shift uneasily in James' gut. "You know what," James stuttered. "Why don't I just leave you alone? Just...do whatever you need to do."

"I'm sorry," he said over his shoulder as he fled.

---

Snape realized he'd been clutching the cloak to his chest like an idiot child and let it drop back onto the bed. He was surprised Potter hadn't noticed, or commented.

Do whatever you need to do...

He needed to think. Nothing in his world made sense anymore. He needed to go somewhere safe and just think things out.

Five minutes later he knocked on Madam Pomfrey's office door.

"Come in."

Snape walked into the office. Madam Pomfrey looked up from her desk, giving him a once-over. She gave him a quick once-over. "I hope you're not back with another set of bruised knuckles."

"I have a wand now. No more bruised knuckles for me."

"Merlin help us."

Snape sat himself in the faded chair in front of Madam Pomfrey's desk. It was soft, but the springs were gone, causing him to sink backwards into the chair; it was very comfortable until you tried to get back up.

"So I take it this is a social visit?"

"What did you mean when you told me to check my premises?" Snape asked bluntly.

"That you were making a bad assumption."

"About Potter."

"To start with."

"So what is the correct assumption?"

Madam Pomfrey absently trimmed the tip of her quill. "You'll have to sort that out for yourself."

"If that's the best answer you have, you should have gone into divination, not medicine."

"Divination was my best subject, actually. But I learned that people understand best when they discover the answers on their own."

"But I don't...I can't make sense of anything since Potter brought me here."

Madam Pomfrey used the top of her feathered quill to dust the trimmings into the bin. "Well, what do you think his motives were?"

"I thought...he'd get to enjoy torturing me, and his father might enjoy having a competent lab assistant."

"And now?"

"And now I don't know. Potter's just not disciplined enough to be faking his reactions...and Mrs. Potter...there's a lot of evidence, but no good theory to tie it all together."

"There is, you just haven't found it yet. Why do you think James picked on you in the first place?"

Snape shrugged. "Because I was there."

"You can do better than that."

"Because I was weak and vulnerable and he was a spoiled, arrogant prat?"

"Weakness and vulnerability are not the same thing, but we'll save that fight for later." Madam Pomfrey leaned forward. "James and Sirius like a challenge—but one handicapped enough that they will surely win. They picked on you because you are remarkably skilled and resilient, but without any support you could never hope to give them back as good as you got."

"But I could defend myself so they didn't have to feel guilty—that was Potter's excuse, anyway."

"Yes, well, they were spoiled, arrogant prats and you might have noticed that neither are very good at examining the consequences of their actions in advance."

Snape snorted. "I should be thankful for that. If Potter could think ahead more than thirty seconds, I'm sure I'd still be in Lucius's hands—or dead."

"But you aren't, are you?"

"No."

"And why is that?"

"I don't know!" Snape tugged on his hair. He had come here to find peace, but instead Madam Pomfrey was digging right into the source of his confusion and fear.

"It's not right to hurt someone who needs your protection, or let them be hurt."

"Lucius wouldn't agree."

"Obviously. But would Potter?"

Snape tried to deny it, but he kept seeing Potter, his eyes crinkled at the edges and his mouth turned downward as he learned what was going to happen in a week's time. Potter had seemed caught between frustration and guilt, even though he had done nothing to feel guilty about, for once.

No, Snape had earned this punishment himself. The horrible dread that he'd pushed into the back of his mind surged forward again. He tried to hide it, but knew he had failed when Madam Pomfrey circled around the desk to crouch in front of him.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

Snape wrapped his hands around her wrist and tried to get a hold of his shakes. Finally, he took a breath, and told her. It came out in a garbled rush, but when he'd finished Madam Pomfrey had heard enough to give him a calming draught and hold his hand.

---

For Snape, the week passed in a muddle of foggy moments. It was as if all the terror and despair that had poured out of him on Sunday had taken with it all of Snape's humanity—if there had even been any left to take. There was no anger, fear or despair. He felt painfully empty, like a shriveled, dry husk.

Potter was a strange case as well. He was...solicitous. He made sure Snape went to classes, meals and did his homework—something Snape had never needed reminding of before. But time just seemed to slip through his fingers, and he couldn't remember what assignments he had or had done. He couldn't remember if he had showered, eaten, changed clothes or slept. And he didn't even have the energy to worry about it.

He knew he had gone mad. He wondered, distantly, if Potter would notice and have him put down before Lucius' punishment. But, no, he was not that lucky.

Friday evening came and he didn't notice. It was not until Potter led him to the headmaster's office and he saw Mrs. Potter standing there that he remembered. The coming punishment—torture, really.

And then he was looking at himself, from above. It did not feel odd—his mind (and sight) simply transplanted themselves from his head to a place about three feet above and behind his own body. His mind seemed to have realized what would be happening to his body soon, and decided that it wanted no part of it.

From this distant angle, he could see how greasy and stringy his hair had gotten, now that he did not even make an attempt at washing it. He knew the others in the room were talking, making reassuring noises and that his own head was nodding, but he could not understand what was being said.

Mrs. Potter held out a handful of Floo powder, and Snape saw himself take it and throw it into the fireplace. He watched himself step through, before feeling himself tugged along into the swirling whirlpool of the Floo network.

He watched himself stumble out of the fireplace and stare blankly at the room around him. It looked to be a comfortable sitting room—far too comfortable for a family of significant money and status. It was open and well lit, the cloth furniture clearly used but not ancient enough to warrant the title of antique or family heirloom. It was also quite small compared to the cavernous rooms at the Malfoy Manor.

There was a man standing by the fireplace. Dark, unruly hair streaked with gray, and wire-rimmed glasses over his brown eyes left no doubt as to whose father he was. It was eerie, though, how closely James' features matched his father's, but how little his attitude did. Mr. Potter was thin, but pale with long worry lines cut into his face. His hair was cut close to his head, though that didn't stop little tufts from sticking up all over. There was something very concentrated in the way he stood, his arms and robes folded close to his body, straight and centered. It was different from James Potter, who always seemed to fill the room he was in with sound and movement.

All at once, Snape remembered that he should be kneeling. But he couldn't seem to communicate that message to his detached body, which stared blankly and impolitely at his master's father.

He heard doors opening. He heard Mrs. Potter's voice, though he had not noticed her stepping through the Floo. He heard Potter's voice. He heard footsteps. Then, in the doorway, he heard Lucius voice, creeping across his skin like cold, familiar fingers.

With a sudden, sickening jolt, Snape found himself propelled back into his own body. He felt himself jerk, his arms and legs tense and his vision grey out for a second. And then he was looking out of his own two eyes, staring at Lucius, firmly entrenched in the body that his former master would soon be torturing.

Lucius smiled.

---

For a little while, James thought Snape had died and left his semi-animate corpse behind. The day after Snape had returned from Italy, he hadn't woken up in time for breakfast. James had finally hauled him out of bed and told him to go to class. He had been shocked by the slackness in the pale face, and the absolute emptiness of the black eyes.

He decided it must have been shock, and expected Snape to snap out of it in a few hours.

But nearly a week later, there was nothing. Snape moved when he was told, and answered when he was asked. He was like a victim of the Dementor's kiss, utterly without soul.

It wasn't until Friday night, standing in James' living room that Snape showed the first hint of emotion: terror.

James led Lucius into the living room where Snape was. Lucius had walked right up behind Snape and whispered something to him. Snape jerked as if he'd been hit with an electrifying curse, and spun around, eyes wide and mouth gaping open. James had never seen real terror before, and now the sight made him sick to his stomach.

Lucius smiled at the sight. "Nervous, are we?"

James watched Snape's face contort, finally settling on a rigid stillness as he stared at his old master. He was quite obviously still terrified, but fighting very hard not to show it. And failing terribly, but James was relieved to see Snape finally taking up the reins to his own mind again.

Lucius was not relieved; he was furious. "Answer me!"

Snape flinched and dropped his eyes, but kept his mouth firmly shut.

James heard his father clear his throat. "Mr. Malfoy," his dad said, voice low and firm. "There is nothing in the Ministry order that gives you the right to talk to this boy. The arrangements have been made. You will follow us into the basement, carry out your 'punishment' and leave."

James' dad stepped between Snape and Lucius, ending up so close to Snape that his chin almost touched the boy's nose. "Lad, can you hear me?"

Snape nodded, eyes still wide and absolutely terrified.

"Follow me. Don't take your eyes off me. Everything will be fine. This is nothing that you haven't survived before. In a little while, it will be over and you won't have to be afraid anymore."

Snape stared at James' father. The terror didn't go away, but Snape gave a slight nod and seemed to grab hold of himself just a little tighter.

His dad led them down to the basement. Specifically, he led them to the far corner, which had been cleared of boxes and broken things and sterilized from top to bottom. A ring had been bolted through the wall, and brown, padded manacles hung from it.

He still couldn't believe this was happening.

"Strip," Lucius hissed.

Snape didn't move for a second, and then he began to unbutton his robe—one of the tattered old things he'd bought on Saturday. At least Remus had had the forethought to make sure he didn't wear one of the new ones.

Snape was shaking so badly that he could barely manage the buttons. James almost wanted to go over and help him, the way he sometimes had to do for Remus, right before his friend changed into the wolf. But he just couldn't imagine undressing Snape, and he suspected he'd wind up blasted halfway across the basement if he tried that anyway.

Soon enough Snape had let his robe drop to the floor and stepped out of his pants. James felt himself flush and kept his eyes firmly in the space between Snape's pointed chin and collarbone.

Without being told, Snape walked up to the stone wall and locked the manacles onto his own wrists. He pressed his head against the stone and breathed out, a harsh, strangled sound. Naked, terrified and chained to a wall, he still had more dignity than Malfoy, who stood leering like a pervert.

Malfoy snapped his fingers. A house elf appeared, carrying a box and a folded brown robe draped over its shoulders. Malfoy put on the robe, which was covered in brown stains. Snape's blood, James realized.

Malfoy opened the box. He put on a pair of thick gloves and pulled out a short whip, wrapped completely in a damp cloth, except for the handle. He nodded for the house elf to unwrap it.

It was not what James had expected. The whip was only a few feet long and very thin. It didn't look like it could do much damage, but James was bright enough to know that looks meant little when magic was involved.

Lucius looked up at them, brushing his long white hair out of his face with his wrist. "Tryptale venom," he explained. From the corner of his eye, James saw Snape flinch as if the whip had already landed. "It travels through breaks in the skin and into the blood stream, activating the nerves along the way. But, I assure you, it will do no lasting damage to your property. Not that a few new scars will reduce its cosmetic value much."

James found Lucius' polite explanation, obviously pitched loud enough for Snape to hear, to be far more disturbing than the instrument of torture that he held in his hand. "Malfoy, just do what you came to do, or we'll throw you the hell out of this house."

Malfoy smirked. "As you wish."

He walked up to Snape, running a finger down Snape's spine. Snape flinched and made a strangled whimpering sound. He buried his face against his arm.

Before James could repeat his warning, Malfoy stepped back and flicked the whip against Snape's skin.

Snape's flinch was impressive, but the mark wasn't. Just a thin red line from shoulder to shoulder. It wasn't until the third blow that James noticed the thin tendrils of black creeping out from the first wound. Soon they began to branch out, forming a spider-webbed network across the pale skin. Snape was sobbing into his arm, body tense as a wire. But he hadn't screamed yet, and James was as impressed as he was horrified.

Lucius ordered a glass of water from his house elf. He took his time sipping it while watching Snape fight the need to scream.

Conversationally, he said, "The whip is actually one of the slowest methods of delivery. This one isn't heavy enough to do much more than scratch the skin, and the bruising delays the spread of the toxin even more. But I find the slow build up of agony to be exquisite."

James felt sick. He looked at his father, but his dad looked just as poorly as he felt.

Finally Lucius set down the glass and picked up the whip again. After the second blow had landed on the poisoned skin, Snape did scream. He tried to muffle the sound by pressing his mouth against his arm, but in a few minutes he was howling.

His screams weren't timed with the blows. He let out the scratchy, desperate wails each time he managed to take a breath. James felt a deep shame settle in the pit of his stomach. He shouldn't be watching this. Watching Snape tortured, helpless and stripped of his self-control was deeply humiliating, as bad as watching the other boy being raped would have been. James understood that, in some sense, he was watching the other boy being raped.

James was sick and sweating by the time Lucius finally handed the whip to the house elf to be folded away, and stretched his arm as if afraid the extended exercise had hurt it.

I hope the bloody thing falls off, James thought, so I could shove it down your throat.

Lucius stared at the still-screaming slave, something bordering between hunger and fury in his eyes. Finally, he turned to James' father and spoke, his voice vicious. "If you heal him before the two days are past, I will press charges."

James held open the basement door. "And if you don't leave now, we'll press charges."

James watched Lucius leave, long white hair swishing with each step. He followed him out the front door, then shut and locked it from the inside.

James felt the urge to tell a house elf to scrub every inch of floor Lucius had stepped on. He wanted the man gone and no trace left of him.

When he got back to the basement, he found his father kneeling over Snape,\ who was lying prostrate on a blanket. His screams had long since become quiet, harsh rasps, and he was trying feebly to crawl away from James' father who was keeping him on the blanket while struggling to open a jar.

James looked at his dad, mouth hanging open like a fish's. "Can you help him?"

"I can neutralize the toxin chemically, but I can't heal him or the Ministry will know, and this will happen all over again." His dad finally got the lid off the jar and offered it to James. It smelled noxious. "Rub this anywhere you see the black. Start from the wounds and move outwards. You take one side, I'll take the other."

James hesitated. He didn't want to touch the foul stuff in the jar, and he especially didn't want to touch Snape. But he bit his lip and scooped some of the cream out of the jar.

He rubbed the cream into Snape's skin. Snape hissed and cried out, rasping like a kitten. Several painful minutes ticked by before the raised black lines began to fade and melt back into the skin. James and his father emptied the jar in less than fifteen minutes, but it took nearly twice that long before the lines had completely faded. James summoned another blanket and covered Snape with it.

Even through the thick wool, James could see the tension in Snape's body slowly release as the agony began to fade. His breathing evened out and slowly became regular.

James' legs were cramped from sitting so long on the cold floor by the time Snape finally tried to sit up. He made it up to his elbows before he looked down and seemed to recall that he was naked. Snape grimaced.

His dad fetched Snape's clothes and handed them to James. James stared at them, then slid the pants under the blanket and into Snape's hands. He didn't think anyone could put on a robe while lying down under a blanket.

Snape struggled with the pants. He was moving in slow, jerky movements as if every motion drained his energy. Finally, he either succeeded or gave up and slumped onto the blanket-covered floor.

James looked at his father. "Should we carry him up?"

His dad shook his head. "You need to ask him that."

Snape looked like he'd rather not move at all. But he said, "I'll walk."

James wasn't sure that he could crawl, but when he opened his mouth to argue, his dad's hand came down hard on his shoulder.

"Okay," his dad said. "Take as much time as you need."

Snape shook his head and stood up, swaying a little bit as he caught his balance. James helped him put the robe on, and stood behind him as he pulled himself up the stairs.

He half-expected Snape to collapse at any second. But Snape merely fixed his eyes on James' father and followed him up the stairs from the basement, into the hall, and then up another set of stairs to the first floor, where the new spare bedroom was. Along the way Snape had periodically paused, tottered, and then seemed to pull just a little extra strength from the air to stumble on.

Snape made it into the bedroom. He looked at the bed in alarm, eyes darting from James to his father in a panic.

James, in a rare flash of insight, knew exactly what Snape was thinking. "It's okay," he said. "The bed's all yours. Nobody will—" He hesitated, not wanting to finish that sentence in front of his father. "It's all yours. Your wand's in the pocket of your robe."

Snape looked at him, hand slipping into that pocket and wrapping around the handle of the wand. Finally, he stumbled over to the bed and sat down. James' father crouched down next to the bed, so he wasn't hovering over Snape.

"Go get him some ice water," he said to James. "His throat's going to be very sore."

James accepted the dismissal gratefully. Outside the bedroom, he leaned against a wall and struggled against the urge to scream himself.

---

When Potter left, Snape turned his attention to Potter's father. He was exhausted and still in some pain, but he didn't want to appear completely pathetic. He'd once, only a few months ago, dreamed of meeting this man in entirely different circumstances.

He had imagined attending a potions convention, and dazzling the attending masters, inventors and researchers with his brilliance. He knew he would have to overcome looks and the 'poor family' background Calligulus had designed for him, but inventors in particular favored competence over money and blood. And Benjamin Potter was one of the best inventors in his field—healing potions. He almost never took apprentices, but Snape had sometimes fantasized about impressing the man so much that he could do nothing other than take a fellow potions prodigy under his wing.

That dream—fantasy, really—was dead and buried now. Benjamin Potter had seen him for what he really was, naked and screaming like a mindless animal. But he'd be damned if he just rolled over and gave in.

Mr. Potter, at least, wasn't hovering over him. He dragged a chair over and sat down, so he was at Snape's level. He also helped pack some pillows between Snape and the headboard, so he had something soft to lean against.

Snape was too tired to be stunned.

Mr. Potter leaned forward. "How much pain are you in? One finger for a little, three for a lot and two for in between."

Did this man really care? Madam Pomfrey's words came drifting back, but Snape shoved them into the back of his mind and sat on them. He held up two fingers.

"Okay, that's good. I imagine your throat hurts as much as your back, am I right?"

Snape nodded. His throat actually hurt worse at the moment. And he knew all the muscles he had clenched for so long would start to seize up soon. He was rather hoping to be unconscious before that happened.

"All right. I could give you some Muggle pain killers—the Ministry wouldn't be able to detect those—but they sometimes react differently in wizards, and swallowing them would probably be more pain than they're worth. You'll just have to keep a stiff upper lip, I suppose."

Snape shrugged. Currently, his upper lip felt more trembly than stiff, but the discomfort he was in now was minor compared to the agony he should still be suffering. He wanted to ask about that, but didn't quite dare. He'd just have to trust that Mr. Potter was clever enough to avoid the fine and hassle associated with disrupting a Ministry-ordered punishment.

"I can't give you Dreamless Sleep—Ministry again." Snape nodded, glad that at least James' father seemed to have done his homework. "Will you be able to sleep?"

Snape hesitated. If he was lucky, he would be too exhausted to dream half the night, but then the horror of the day and the fact that he was sleeping in a bed in his master's house would creep in.

Showing a slightly worrisome perception, Mr. Potter asked, "Are you afraid of nightmares?"

Snape swallowed, winced and nodded.

"Do you want someone to stay up with you? I know Evelyn won't mind. She's done it before."

Snape shook his head, though he was shocked at the offer. He could manage the night on his own. He'd done it hundreds of times before.

"Is there someone else you'd rather have with you?"

Snape started to shake his head, then hesitated. He didn't want to seem any more weak or vulnerable, and he certainly didn't want to reveal to his masters how much he was starting to rely on Madam Pomfrey's quiet presence. But he found himself rasping anyway, "Madam Pomfrey, if you…."

He half expected his master's father to laugh. But instead Ben nodded. "I'll have Evelyn get her on the Floo. Meanwhile, you should lie down."

At that point, Potter shuffled back into the room, a glass of ice water in his hand. Snape glared at it suspiciously. Lucius would never have fetched water for Snape, even on his father's order, without adding some nasty surprise to it. But he could vaguely remember James taking him to meals and class with an air of restrained worry and irritation.

Supposing he didn't have much of a choice, Snape accepted the glass. The cold water soothed and then numbed his throat. When he was done with the glass, he finally let his body collapse completely on the bed. It made him nervous, lying so vulnerable in his master's bed, but he would have soon run out of energy to stay upright anyway.

Mr. Potter made as if to leave, and as eager as Snape was for that to happen, he had to ask one thing. "Lucius," he rasped. "Is he gone?"

Mr. Potter paused at the doorway. "He's gone, and he won't be coming back. You're quite safe here, lad."

---

James fell onto the couch and buried his head in the crook of his arm.

His mum sat on the coffee table in front of him. "It's good that you had a hard time watching that."

"Yeah." He paused. "I was really a prick to Snape."

"Recently?"

"No—well, yeah. I got him away from Lucius, but I didn't really try to help him. And I couldn't even protect him, in the end."

"Well, I certainly hope that this isn't the _end_. Anyway, the immediate question is what do you do about it now?"

James groaned. That was the question his mum always asked him whenever he started feeling sorry for himself. "Kill Lucius?" he answered, hopefully.

"Besides that. Always try to pick the plan that won't land you in Azkaban."

"Someone needs to tell that to Sirius." He paused. "I don't know what to do. I don't like Snape. I never have."

"Why not?"

James shrugged. "I'm not sure. He was odd. And he didn't like us much either."

"What did you dislike about him specifically?"

"It's hard to say now. He looked funny. He didn't talk to people. He was always reading. He didn't have any friends."

"And those were good enough reasons to spend five years picking on him?"

James folded his arms across his chest. "Well, he didn't exactly roll over and whimper. This whole submissive thing surprised me too. I wouldn't have thought him capable, three weeks ago." He stopped, then added sullenly, "Besides, if you thought what we were doing was wrong, you should have said something."

His mum frowned, grey eyes darkening. "Perhaps I should have, but I doubt it would have done much good. You never listen until you're ready—just like your father."

"What makes you think I'm ready now?" James snapped.

"You had better be. You're responsible for another life now, James. You can be angry and frustrated if you want, but it won't do any good. You took responsibility, and you can't just give it up now because you think it's too hard."

"Snape can take care of his own damn self."

"Watch your language," his mum snapped back. "Snape won't take care of himself. If you don't make sure he has what he needs and is safe, he'll assume you mean for him to go without and suffer."

James began to feel like a cat boxed into a corner. He responded in the usual feline way—by getting angrier. "Why don't you take care of him? Why wait for me to fu—to mess it up?"

His mum was quiet for awhile. When she spoke, her voice was low and calm again. "Because your father and I won't be here forever. It is you Snape will depend on to do the things he can't do, legally, for himself. You need to recognize what that means, right now."

"What if I don't want to?" James whined. He knew how stupid it sounded as the words tumbled out of his mouth.

His mum pulled her long, grey-streaked hair back over her shoulder, a sure sign that she was about to go on a rant. "That's fine. You don't have to want anything. I'm quite certain the boy upstairs didn't want to be tortured, starved, sold and then tortured again. And I very much doubt he wants to belong to you any more than you want to own him."

She stared him hard in the eye, her face a stone mask. "What you want right now doesn't matter any more than it matters what Snape wants. The only thing that matters is what you do. So what are you going to do?"

James said the only thing he could, trapped as he was. "I'll find a way to look out for him. I guess I don't have a choice."

"Of course you have a choice. They aren't good choices but..." His mum looked away, but James could see her eyes glittering. "I'm very proud of the choices you have made, James. I'm very proud of you."

James looked away, staring at the grey rug under his feet, feeling baffled and a little awkward. "I thought you were angry at me."

His mum gave a little hiccup of a laugh. "I was frustrated with you—not for the first or last time. But I never believed you'd say anything else, in the end. It's just getting you to admit what you already know that is...difficult."

James looked at his mum, the lines on her face jagged in the flickering firelight, and her eyes tired. Her shoulders sagged.

It was a strange, painful revelation to him, that fighting with his mum hurt her as much as it did him. Any residual anger was quickly replaced by guilt. He didn't want to hurt his mum. He had just never considered that a possible result of the short, quiet, intense fights they were prone to. For him, they were just over and done with.

"I'm sorry for being so pigheaded," James said, and meant it.

His mum gave him a real smile. "Of course you are. And of course you'll do it again. You have too much of me in you to do anything else."

---

About half an eternity after James and his father left, Snape heard the door to his room open. He turned his head in alarm, but a slow smile overtook his face as soon as he saw the person standing in the doorway.

Madam Pomfrey bustled over to him. She brushed the curtain of greasy hair away from his face. "How are you?"

That was a pointless question. But Snape, deciding the pain in his throat wasn't worth a sarcastic remark, just shrugged.

"May I have a look at your back? Ben told me what happened."

Snape grimaced but nodded. Madam Pomfrey pulled back the light blanket and helped him shed the robe.

Madam Pomfrey tsk'd a bit as she looked him over, but overall she seemed a little surprised that the damage wasn't greater. "You should be just fine in a few days, even without treatment. Ben Potter has quite a reputation, and it seems he's lived up to it again. How did he manage to neutralize the poison without bringing the Ministry down round your heads? Now open your mouth so I can have a look at your throat."

Snape glared at her. It was rather unfair to ask the potions geek a question about potions, and then shine a wand light down his throat. Not that he could have answered her anyway, both because his throat hurt too much and because he didn't know the answer.

"Hmm. You shouldn't try talking until tomorrow. You might try gargling warm salt water if it gets too sore."

Snape grimaced. He'd had a lot of unpleasant things in his mouth in the past, and he didn't see how trying a new one would make him feel better.

"Otherwise, you're in fairly good health. The best thing you can do right now is sleep."

Snape stared up at her, the question obvious in his eyes.

"I'll stay to wake you up if you have a nightmare." Madam Pomfrey pulled out the chair by his bed and took a seat. She pulled a book out of her robe pocket. "It's the new Carmen Wingnose novel; I'd be up all night reading it anyway."

Snape found it in himself to smile a little. The idea of Madam Pomfrey staying up all night reading romance/adventure novels was bizarre yet comforting. More comforting was her presence beside him. He knew it wouldn't help much with the nightmares, but at least it made him feel safe. He might get just a little bit of rest that way.

He settled down on his belly, as Madam Pomfrey turned out the lights. He turned his face towards her as she sat down. He listened to the sound of pages turning, and watched the glowing tip of her wand bob up and down as she used it to light the pages of her books.

Snape'd had enough people fall asleep next to him in very unpleasant situations to be a little phobic about hearing someone's breath so close. But no one had ever just sat next to him and read, so he concentrated on the rustle of the pages and the creak of Madam Pomfrey's chair as she got comfortable. He found the sounds so comforting that he almost didn't want to fall asleep.

But, of course, he did.

---

By the time his eyes opened, Snape was sure that he should have stayed asleep. There was a sharp pain in his neck from sleeping on his belly all night long with his head turned at an odd angle. As he started to move to try and relieve the pain, all the muscles that he had clenched so tightly yesterday creaked and moaned as if they were made of wood. When he tried to get to his elbows, his scratched and bruised back sent sharp stabs of pain into his head.

Wonderful. He had gotten spoiled the last few weeks, used to living without pain. This wasn't even particularly bad, but he still wanted to bury his aching head under a pillow and sleep the next two days through.

Madam Pomfrey's hands came into view. Snape flinched instinctively, but leaned into her as she helped him sit up. Mrs. Potter appeared from some dark corner of the room with a glass of water—tepid, he guessed, from the lack of condensation on the glass.

Mrs. Potter offered the glass to him and he eyed it warily. She sighed. "It's not poisoned. It's not drugged. Taking it means nothing but that you are thirsty. Now, do you want some?"

Snape, a little impressed by her bluntness, nodded. The water did feel good against his raspy throat. "Thank you," he whispered, when he'd finished the glass.

"More?"

Snape shook his head.

"Are you hungry?"

Snape hesitated, then nodded.

"What would you like? Porridge, eggs or soup?"

Snape stared at her as if she had gone mad.

Mrs. Potter got up. "I know you're not daft, and you know I'm not going to hurt you. So why don't you just tell me what you'd like for breakfast, and I'll go fetch it."

"Porridge," Snape rasped.

"Then porridge you shall have."

Mrs. Potter left, leaving Snape staring at the door, frozen. He felt Madam Pomfrey put one warm, dry hand over his and he let her.

Snape finally asked the question. "They're not going to hurt me, are they? Even if it would be useful for them."

Madam Pomfrey gave his hand a squeeze. "No, they're not. They're good people."

"And Potter..."

"Won't either. One of these days, he will be good people."

A smile flickered on Snape's face, before dying.

"You really are safe, you know."

Snape did know, but hearing the words shattered something inside of him. He rolled over and buried his face in the pillow. In a few seconds it was too wet with tears and snot for him to breath, so he curled into a ball. He muffled the small, choked, horribly embarrassing sounds in the crook of his arm. Madam Pomfrey stood by him and stroked his hair, whispering words too soft for him to understand.


	11. Chapter 11

After Madam Pomfrey left him, still hiccupping and a little shell-shocked, Snape tried to get comfortable. By the time Mr. Potter came into his room with a tottering armload of books and papers, he still hadn't succeeded.

Mr. Potter greeted him with a smile. "You seem to be doing much better."

Snape nodded. Mr. Potter still made him nervous, but he found himself staring at the books, trying to read the titles on the spines.

"James mentioned that you are rather good at potions."

"A little better than good, sir."

Mr. Potter's smile got wider, the corners of his eyes crinkling up like tissue paper. "No false modesty from you, I see." He shifted the books in his arms. "Do you know what it was that I used on you last night?"

Snape felt a tingling rush of blood to his cheeks. "No, sir," he admitted.

"Call me Ben or Mr. Potter, not sir. Anyway, can you take a guess?"

Snape tried to focus. His brain felt like a set of old, rusted gears trying to grind into place. He blinked and shook his head, but nothing came.

"What's unique about the venom Malfoy used?"

"I don't know. It's an odd one...the magic --" The gears snapped into place. "Mundanity and magic. The venom is delivered through the skin by magic, but the chemical that causes the p -- that makes it work is entirely mundane."

"Very good."

"But how do you get the magic to transport the antidote?"

Mr. Potter dropped the books onto the bed. They bounced and the bed springs creaked in displeasure. "Answer that for me by tomorrow morning, and I'll let you monkey around in my lab for a few hours."

Snape had never been given much in the way of presents as a young boy, but this moment might be worth all fifteen lost Christmases. He pounced on the texts. One looked as if it was hand-bound, and he didn't recognize the title. There were also blank pages in the front and back. He looked up at Ben Potter, curious.

"It's not finished yet, but I think it will give you a good introduction to combining the mundane and magical in potions. Come up with a title, and I'll name my second born after you."

"You're letting me read an unpublished manuscript?" Most Potion Researchers guarded their manuscripts more closely than their children, lest their ideas be stolen. Children, after all, could be replaced.

"Why not? You're stuck in bed at least until tomorrow morning, and it's bad manners to let a guest rot away in boredom. I'll check in on you tonight."

pre --- /pre

Mr. Potter was simply a terrible writer. He could barely spell, and his convoluted, run-on sentences had a tendency to end abruptly when the point had been made, regardless of whether the rules of grammar had been satisfied. Several long paragraphs consisted of either one long sentence, or many half-sentences running into each other without a single full stop.

Clearly, somebody must regularly translate Ben Potter's work before a manuscript was allowed near the publisher. Otherwise, he'd have been laughed out of Britain.

What was worse was that, underneath the horrible writing, it was a revolutionary text that would probably eventually create a new branch of potion making. Nobody had thought to combine Muggle sciences with potions, but the more Snape read, the more it made sense.

Mr. Potter had also left a few Muggle primers on basic chemistry, biology and physics. Snape chewed through them, but much of it left him scratching his head. Not literally -- his hair hadn't been washed in a few days, and was too greasy and sweaty for even him to touch. He had the feeling the books were meant for Muggles who had much more background than he did. Much of the technical language he simply didn't know, and couldn't reference while trapped here in bed. It frustrated and frightened him, because he didn't know what Ben Potter would do if he couldn't give an answer to his challenge in the morning.

He'd tried out the idea of visiting the Potter's library when Madam Pomfrey had been checking him over, and she had responded by taking all his books and locking them in a drawer. "It's ten past midnight," she'd said at his indignant hiss, "and your eyes are crossing."

"Lucius once made me stand on one leg all night. Every time I put my foot down, he or one of his minions would _Cruciate _me. I can manage a midnight study session." He felt a wisp of satisfaction as the expected horror and sympathy crossed Pomfrey's face. But she didn't back down; merely took out her book and sat in the chair next to his bed.

"What makes you think I want you here?" he hissed, even though he _did_ want her here. Badly.

Madam Pomfrey looked at him, her face frozen. "Would you rather I leave?"

No, but he couldn't make the words he needed to say come out. So he said the words he really shouldn't. "I would rather you didn't act like every other free person I have known. I would rather you didn't use my helplessness against me."

"I'm not using it _against_ you," she pointed out. "You need to rest."

"You're using the fact that I can't stop you to make me do what you want."

"Actually, I'm making you not do what you want. But I do see your point."

Snape noticed that she still wasn't moving. "Does that mean you are going to give the books back to me now?"

"No. I understand what you are saying, but I am also an adult tasked with making and keeping you well. You are mentally and physically exhausted; staying up all night will just make you sick and miserable. You can have the books back when you wake up. The faster you go to sleep, the faster you can get back to your reading."

Snape glared. Madam Pomfrey's firm look faltered a bit. "_Would_ you rather I left you alone tonight?"

"Do you even care?" he snapped.

Madam Pomfrey's lips quirked up inexplicably. No, it was perfectly explicable. She was toying with him, enjoying his frustration and helplessness.

Except that didn't sound like Madam Pomfrey at all.

"I'm sorry," she said. She got out of the chair and sat on the edge of his bed. "I've just heard those words come out of so many angry, sullen, _free_ adolescent mouths. You don't realize it, but you really have come a long way, Severus."

"What the bloody hell does that mean?"

"It means that I'm proud of you. And that you should watch your language. I _can_ give detention, you know."

"I don't know what you want from me," Snape said, his voice dipping towards a whine.

"At this very moment, I want you to sleep and feel better."

"The two might be mutually exclusive."

"Four years of mediwitch training and ten years of medical practice argues that I know what I'm talking about. "She leaned in to him, lowering her voice. "I can stay or I can go, but you are going to sleep. You're arguing with me for the same reason you're reading those books -- because you're avoiding something you don't want to think about. You can do that just as well if you're asleep."

"What if I can't avoid it while I sleep?" Somewhere the snappy comment he was aiming for got lost, and was replaced by this question and a cracking voice.

"Then you can't avoid it at all." Her head fall against her chest for a moment, letting her brown hair fall over her shoulder. Snape realized it was the first time he had seen it down. "Tell you what. I'll read to you -- from my book, not yours. With any luck, poorly penned tales of riding on dragons', well, tails should bore you right to sleep, and you'll dream of rescuing maiden princesses from the clutches of evil dark lords."

"I'm not going to get a better offer, am I?"

"Your instincts for negotiation are well-honed."

Snape shook his head and lay back with a sigh. "No, they're not. People don't negotiate with a--with me. They order, threaten or just use force. You're the first person my 'instincts' have got to negotiate with."

"Then you're instincts are just good. Shall we start from the beginning or shall I just read from the part I'm at now?"

"Will I need to start from the beginning to know the plot of the story?"

"Not if you stay awake for the first two paragraphs."

"Then wherever you are is fine."

pre --- /pre

Snape was still staring blearily at the clock by his bed -- which could not possibly be reading 10:15 -- when James' father strolled into the room.

"How did you sleep?"

Snape rubbed his eyes. "Well, I think. I couldn't -- I'm sorry, I couldn't find the answer to your question."

Mr. Potter took a seat in Madam Pomfrey's empty chair. "Why not?"

"I don't know enough about Muggle science. Especially mole-ocular biology."

"Molecular, but close enough. Why do you think it's molecular biology you need to understand?"

"The Muggles have found things -- proteins was their word -- that can cause the sensation of pain without any real harm. The toxin must have been one of those. Proteins are molecules and related to the study of biology."

"Then you already know more than most wizards on the subject. Do you feel strong enough for a tour?"

"I thought -- you said I had to answer your question."

"It was your question, actually. I already know the answer, both to that question and, now, to the question I was really asking."

"Which was?"

"Whether or not you have half the potential your scores and school reports tell me you do. So, do you feel up for a tour?"

Snape gaped for a second, then nodded until the bedroom tilted around him. "Yes, sir."

pre --- /pre

The four of them were sitting together in a loose circle. Remus looked mildly sick. Sirius had a lost, befuddled look but James thought he could see a little bit of sympathy breaking through.

Peter just shrugged. "So Malfoy whipped him a little. It's what you do with slaves. Snape's probably the better for it."

"Peter!" Remus shouted, clearly appalled.

James didn't shout. The anger, horror and frustration that had been rising in him since he'd dragged Snape's naked, lacerated arse through the Floo that first time roiled over. James just leaned forward and slugged Peter on the jaw. He watched his friend's head snap back and his eyes go wide and round.

He had hardly any leverage behind the punch, which was good because under all the pudge, Peter's jaw was rather solid.

James shook out his aching hand while Peter stared at him, wide-eyed, and sputtered.

"Are you better for that?" James asked.

"I'm not a slave, you arse!"

Sirius got between them. "Calm down, mate. Wormy's got a point."

"No he hasn't," James growled.

"Slaves aren't like us." Sirius argued his voice surprisingly reasonable for someone who usually had the emotional stability of an adolescent lemur. "They're manipulative as hell -- they can make you do things..."

James threw up his hands. "Manipulative? Snape? He couldn't manipulate a Boggart into scaring him."

"It could be an act."

"Or potions," Peter added, hiding behind Sirius.

"Nobody acts that well." James looked down at the package on the floor. His last resort. "Snape isn't...if you saw..." He shook his head. "This isn't a game, or a house rivalry. You have to understand what this slavery thing really means."

"Well," said Peter, "enlighten us ignorant fools with your deep wells of hoarded knowledge."

James drew the gray, stone bowl out of the package. His father had left it empty in a cupboard, and James had nicked it in the hopes that it could help him sort out his own feelings about Snape. But now he saw another use for it.

Peter looked unimpressed. "A bowl? You're going to make us change our minds with kitchenware?"

"It's a Pensieve," Remus snapped. "It was in last week's reading."

Peter and Sirius exchanged guilty looks.

James rolled his eyes. "Go ahead, Professor Mooney."

"You may want to take notes," Remus suggested, pointedly. "A Pensieve is a magical bowl. When a wizard places his memories inside, he can look at them as if he were an observer, or let another wizard see what he saw."

"So what?" Peter asked. "You're going to show us Snape not being a git?"

James shook his head. He held up his wand to his temple and thought hard about Lucius's visit. He pulled on the memory, winding it like fresh silk around his wand.

"Ew," Peter exclaimed.

"James," said Sirius, concerned. "Um, are you sure that you're not pulling out anything you might actually, er, need?"

James deposited the memory in the bowl, watching it swirl lazily around. "It's fine. The spell's actually pretty simple."

"Which you would know if you'd done your reading," Remus pointed out.

With some hesitation, James pulled out the memory of the ownership ritual and the image of Snape's bloody, mangled back.

"There. Now look inside."

Never one to avoid doing something potentially dangerous or disgusting, Sirius leaned forward to stare into the bright, swirling strands. Remus hesitated, then followed suite. Peter gave a sigh. "If it will make you happy, Pads."

Last, James leaned forward on his hands and felt himself fall into the past.

He fell back on his arse a rather horrifying length of time later. It was different watching it from a third perspective. Without the overwhelming desperation and confusion to deal with, there was nothing to keep him from focusing on Snape's now obvious agony and terror. And his own equally obvious blindness to it.

James stood up, pacing. He felt relief when he saw the shocked horror on Sirius's now pale face, but he was more than a little disturbed to see Peter's cool and blank. And-- "Where's Moony?"

"The loo," Sirius said.

James nodded. He was almost ready to go there himself. But Remus, despite having torn himself to pieces on a monthly basis for years, still reacted rather unpleasantly to pain and terror. He said that the smell got to him.

Sirius pulled his knees up to his chest. He looked almost like Snape had when he'd found him in that alcove by the Great Hall.

"I feel like a prat."

"You should."

"Thanks."

Sirius chewed on his lip. "You think that that sort of thing happens to all slaves?"

James shrugged. "You'd have to ask Snape. The laws are pretty barbaric, but I don't know if the Malfoys are the exception or the rule."

"This summer...why I left home..."

James perked up. "Yeah?"

"The Lancette side of our family came to visit. They brought a slave. She wasn't anything like Snape at all. She was very submissive, but...charming."

James nodded. "I think most slaves have specific functions, or skills. Snape's is potions."

"And this bird's was sex. And she was at least as good at that as Snape is with potions," Sirius said grimly. "The next night, I caught her with Regulus."

James grimaced. Regulus was thirteen. In families which hung tightly to traditions, the sons were required to remain "pure" until the age of fifteen, when spells to do with lineage could be woven. Even Sirius had managed to keep it in his pants that long.

"What did you do?"

"I hauled him out of bed. He gave me a black eye before he finally settled down. He told me after that he couldn't help himself -- she'd spelled him, seduced him or something."

James shook his head. "Do you remember being thirteen? You certainly didn't need much seducing -- two legs and two tits was good enough for you."

"But I never crossed the line."

"That's because no one would have you."

Sirius shrugged, dismissing that particular truth as irrelevant. "What happened with the bird was bad, but Dad caught me yelling at Reg. He found out."

Sirius pulled one hand through his long hair. "He was angry. Really angry. But the said there was a way to fix it. He took us out that night. One of the ingredients he needed was...from a werewolf."

His eyes flickered to Remus, who had sat down close to James. "There was one that lived in the east end. When I realized what they were doing I tried to stop them, but Dad...he knocked me out."

Sirius took a breath. Peter scooted over and sat down next to Remus. "Anyway, when I woke up, it was too late. They'd -- they'd killed him and taken what they needed. I knew I should have gone to the Aurors, but it was too late and they are _family_." He paused, looking at Remus. "I'm so sorry."

Remus looked a little stunned as well as green. "You shouldn't -- don't have to apologize to me."

"Yeah, well, the one I should apologize to is currently fertilizing Mum's gardenias."

"Is that why you came and stayed with me?" James asked.

"Yeah. I couldn't turn them in, but I couldn't stay there any longer."

"It wasn't your fault," soothed Peter. And then he ruined it. "It never would have happened if that slave --"

James launched across Remus, who bodily blocked his attempt to throttle Peter.

Sirius, however, was nodding. James managed to put two and two together. "Is _that_ why you've been extra prat-like to Snape?"

Sirius crossed his arms across his chest. "And you haven't?"

"I didn't threaten to torture him."

"But you didn't save his arse from Rosier, either. I don't want him hurt, but I trust him more terrified than I do happy and plotting and scheming."

"Well, lay off him in the future. He's quite worried enough without you shoving him around."

Sirius rolled his eyes. "Fine. But I've never hurt him. Actions speak louder than words."

"Bollocks," said Moony. "Words are actions."

pre --- /pre

Ben Potter's lab was set deep in the hillside a good fifty yards from the house. All that was visible from the outside was a single door and a series of skylights poking up from the grassy earth.

Just inside the door was a small chamber. Three thick, canvas robes hung on pegs. Two of them were white, one of them was a patchwork of colorful stains and singe marks. Ben Potter donned that one and handed a white one to Snape. "It helps keep contaminants out of the lab, and stains off the hypothetical lab assistants," he explained.

Inside, the lab was twice the size of the Potter's house. Half of it was simply supplies and ingredients, the other half a series of L-shaped work tables and benches. The light streaming in from the skylight gave it a slightly disturbing cheeriness.

Ben Potter took him inside and let him rummage through one of the work areas. Potter's lab, unlike his prose, was meticulously organized.

One corner of the lab was clearly in use -- a line of filthy cauldrons and labeled jars, each containing sludge in various shades of purple,dotted one table. Papers and scrolls were scattered about a nearby bench. Potter saw him glancing in that direction, but said, "That's for another bribe. Today you just get the tour." And steered him to the opposite corner.

Ben Potter let him rummage about the ingredients and supply shelves a bit, occasionally explaining small quirks of ingredients. Snape asked a few questions of his own, mostly trying to show off how closely he had followed the potion research. He didn't understand anything else about his current situation, but he knew this. In a lab, he had every right to be arrogant and self-assured.

Which led him to forget that he was no longer the smartest person in the room. "Why keep South American cockroach legs?" he asked after finding them in the stores. "Henley's research proves that Hawaiian cockroaches are much more potent."

As soon as his mind caught up to his words, he felt like he had swallowed a handful of cockroach legs. Not only had he just insulted the supplies of his owner's father, but he also probably sounded like a complete fool.

Mr. Potter, for his part, seemed relatively pleased by the question. "Good question. The answer is that Hawaiian cockroaches cost four times American roaches and the potency fades within a few weeks. There are some potions—such as healing potions—where the cost would be prohibitive to some who might need it. The short life also makes large-scale production a problem, and because most British wizards prefer to buy their potions from ready-made stock. Either way, it's not marketable, and if it's not marketable it's not going to the people who need it."

Snape drummed his fingers on a shelf. "I'd never thought about the production aspect before. It wasn't—my former masters never intended me to market the potions I made."

Mr. Potter gave him an unreadable look. "I can imagine."

Before Snape could ask _what_ he imagined, Mr. Potter pulled a text from one of the bookcases in a warded reference area and laid it open on the table Snape was leaning against. Snape wasn't sure what he was planning until he pulled out his pocket watch.

"Have you ever made that potion before?" he asked.

Snape looked at the page and shook his head. "No, sir."

"The book suggests a preparation and brewing time of fifty-five minutes. I'll give you an hour. Starting...now."

Snape felt his forehead crease. "This potion is more advanced than the sixth year curriculum..."

"You're past the sixth year curriculum by all accounts. Now, I suggest you start moving...you're thirty seconds down."

Snape moved. He scanned the directions and began to plan. The first part was relatively simple. He moved swiftly in the preparations, ignoring his protesting body. At a few points, Ben Potter silently nudged him out of the way and took over the mashing and grinding tasks which would have been exceptionally painful for the muscles in his back and his sore wrists.

But he said nothing as Snape stared blankly at step ten on the page:

_Add crushed gnomewart or crushed hops, according to condition of bay shavings._

Snape scanned through twice, but couldn't find anything to indicate what ingredients corresponded to which condition. There was no table in the book, and Snape didn't have time to read it cover to cover, hoping for an answer. He tried to think about the properties of each ingredient, but nothing connected. He knew hops were used primarily to stabilize and adjust, and that the brittle, dry bay leaves were inherently unstable.

Taking a breath, he added the hops. He glanced at Ben Potter, but the man seemed mostly focused on trying to balance his stool on two legs.

The potion simmered, then flashed green. Snape tensed, hoping that it was supposed to do that.

A moment later, ripples shuddered across the surface of the potion, and a low rumbling could be heard from the bottom of the cauldron.

Snape was relatively certain it was not supposed to do that.

Mr. Potter had gotten off his stool, but showed no intention of helping. Snape searched his face for disappointment or anger, but it was carefully blank. Snape felt like he'd swallowed a stone.

He'd gotten it wrong. He could either Evenesco the potion now, or try to save it. Deciding he didn't have much to lose, he crushed some ginger to neutralize the crushed hops -- hoping that it wouldn't interact with some other ingredients and splatter them all with toxic slime. And held his breath.

The potion gurgled, an oddly petulant sound, as if it were hoping for the chance to splatter itself across the pristine lab. Snape took a breath, crossed his fingers, and finished the rest of the potion. He carefully avoided looking at Mr. Potter.

He turned the fire underneath the cauldron off, and planted his shaking hands on the counter. He leaned his weight on his arms and hung his head; a few drops of sweat splattered the black marble. He was shaking all over, but the fear and excitement had drowned out the pain in his body. He felt oddly exhilarated. His sore muscles would make him pay for it tonight, even if Mr. Potter decided he wasn't worth punishing.

Ben Potter was decanting the potion for him, probably guessing that Snape's hands wouldn't be steady enough to avoid scalding himself. Hoping that was a good sign, Snape chewed his lip as Potter examined the contents of the glass vial.

"Not bad. A few shades off, but it's serviceable."

Snape ground his knuckles into the marble countertop. He knew he didn't have the right to ask, but he needed to know. He didn't think he could handle much more pain this weekend. "What are you going to do?"

"With the potion? Give it away, probably. It's not good enough to sell, and it doesn't keep long enough to store."

Snape shook his head. "No, with me."

"Feed you and send you back to school, I suppose." Mr. Potter's voice gentled. "What did you expect?"

"I -- I ballsed up your potion. I expected punishment."

"You nearly wrecked your potion -- and my lab, incidentally -- but if that isn't punishment enough in itself, you have no business aspiring to research or invention. Fear of pain isn't half the motivation that an innate need for perfection is."

Snape thought Mr. Potter was severely underestimating the power of pain as motivation, but he certainly wasn't going to argue.

Mr. Potter ruffled his gray hair, the gesture oddly similar to his son's. "You do have quite a bit to learn, though. So on that note, what do you think you did wrong?"

"I added hops instead of Gnomewart. I thought it would stabilize the bay leaves."

"They would have, but dry bay leaves don't interact well with crushed hops when you add bicorn fur. But that was the last mistake you made. What was the first?"

Snape went cold. "The first?" He thought the rest of the potion had been perfect. Was he so rattled that he was making mistakes and not noticing?"

"I assume you didn't know that bicorn fur reacts that way?"

Snape shook his head.

"Then you started brewing without fully understanding the potion. You should have asked for help or researched it yourself."

"You said -- " Snape bit his tongue, knowing perfectly well that arguing with the man who was functionally his master was stupid. But the words were out and Mr. Potter gestured impatiently for him to continue. "You said that I only had an hour. I didn't have time."

"Then you should have said that. There might be a time when you must make a new potion under a difficult time limit, but this wasn't one of them. By trying to wing it, you put both of us at risk."

Snape pouted internally. "You gave me an order."

"It was a bad order. From now on, I expect you to practice spotting and disregarding those. Don't be afraid to stand your ground. Just make sure you have a good reason."

Snape was baffled. "I'm a slave."

"But you're not a moron. You've got good sense and good instincts. Use them."

Snape closed his eyes and wiped his forehead. Closing his eyes made him dizzy and he wobbled a bit before Mr. Potter placed a wooden stool under his bum and suggested that he use it before he passed out.

Snape decided that was a sensible order. Which was surprising, because most of what Mr. Potter was saying made no sense at all.

He decided to try and clarify the new rules. "Will I be punished if I don't have a good reason?"

Mr. Potter leaned against the counter. Snape was glad; it felt somewhat threatening when Mr. Potter loomed over him. Leaning against the counter put him off balance, and therefore made him safer. "You aren't going to be punished at all. Not with violence, not if we can stop it."

"But if I'm wrong -- "

"Then you're wrong. You apologize and try to fix whatever damage you might have done. If you were free, you'd be an adult in two years. You're old enough to take responsibility for your mistakes, and your decisions."

"I'm not free."

Mr. Potter studied him for a moment, his weathered face looking a little sad. "No, but that's more or less a technicality now. Nobody in this family will treat you like a slave."

Snape thought about the marks on his back, and the moments of absolute terror that attacked from nowhere, and lying awake listening to his master's breathing and wondering if this was when Potter finally decided to claim what was his.

The rage was so sharp and sudden that Snape didn't even think about holding it back. "A _technicality_? You think being stripped naked and tortured for someone's sick vengeance is a technicality? You think waiting to be raped for weeks is just a minor distinction? Or being treated like a house elf by one of the only teachers you really admire? You think being traded for a piece of jewelry is just -- just -- "

"Caligulus's father gave me that ring to symbolize the life debt he owed. With it, I traded his life for yours. I consider it an even trade."

Snape wanted to throw something. "You're an idiot. You traded a life debt for an animated piece of meat. You can call me whatever you want, but I'll never be more than that."

"An animated piece of meat wouldn't have used ginger to neutralize the hops."

"Fine. An educated piece of meat. Perhaps even an unusually bright one."

"Not to mention articulate and stubborn."

"I'm not a _person._ I never will be."

Mr. Potter was turning red, and though his voice was deliberately calm, his jaw muscles were standing out. Every slave instinct Snape had was screaming for him to get to his knees and apologize. He ignored it.

"You are a person, whether the law -- "

"I let men fuck me. I let boys torture me. I've let them do it and begged for more because I'm a _slave_. A person would never survive what I have."

Mr. Potter gave him a weak, half-smile. "Do you really think so?"

Snape froze. "What?"

Mr. Potter's opened his mouth, then closed it as the emotion melted from his face. He shook his head slightly. "Maybe another time," he said quietly. Snape couldn't tell if he was talking to him or to a figment of his imagination. Perhaps it was both – the _person_ Mr. Potter seemed to see in Snape was probably a figment of the older man's addled mind.

Without another word, without looking at him, Mr. Potter sealed the vial of potion and began scrubbing the still-steaming cauldron.

Snape silently found a cloth and began wiping down the cold, black marble.

pre --- /pre

James had spent most of the weekend avoiding his friends while trying to find a way to make said friends understand _why_ he was going out of his way for Snape when he didn't quite understand it himself.

But he did know that he couldn't go on like this. He had watched someone he knew writhe naked and in agony _twice_ in the last few weeks, and he could feel that it had changed something in the way he felt about Snape. It changed the way he thought about the threats they had made and the pranks they had pulled. Or maybe it had just made him think about those things in the first place.

Whichever it was, he could feel it driving like a wedge between him and his friends. He couldn't go back to the way he was before, which meant that they had to move forward to where he was now.

It was Sunday afternoon, and how he was going to do that was still a mystery.

James was still thinking about it on his way to lunch, when he felt a small but sharp-boned, Lily-shaped object drive into his shoulder. He found himself pinned up against the wall behind an armored suit in an alcove, Lily's fists bunched in his robe.

While James had at least one fantasy that started out quite a lot like this, except with less clothing, the look on Lily's face suggested that belly dancing was the last thing on her mind. So, no fantasy.

"What are you doing to Snape?" she hissed. "I heard from Tritter that you took him home to torture him!"

"I didn't!" James protested. Then he reconsidered, "Well, I did. Sort of."

Lily's green eyes narrowed. "Well, which is it?"

"Neither. But if you're so concerned about Snape, maybe you should try dating him."

"I'm certainly not going to be dating you anymore if you don't give me a real answer."

"I didn't hurt him. But Lucius got an order from the Ministry to punish him for realigning Malfoy's nose. We can't heal him yet, but my parents are taking care of him."

Lily lowered her wand but didn't back off. James didn't mind the wand lowering, but having her so close was making his own wand want to stand straight up.

"That's barbaric."

"What?" With the suddenness of a broom wreck, the image of Snape straining in agony, black lines branching out across his skin, flashed in his eyes. James felt his whole body flinch (and his little wand deflate, rather quickly).

Lily eyed him with concern. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah." James shook his head, shoving the memory out of the way. He felt little chills rippling up and down his back. "It's just -- Lucius is way past barbaric."

Lily nodded knowingly, though she couldn't possibly know what he was really talking about. "I'm sorry about..." Lily trailed off, gesturing with her wand.

James forced a cock-eyed grin. "Shoving me into an alcove at wand point? Don't worry about it." The grin became real. "In fact, now that we're dating, you can do it as often as you like."

"Who said that we're dating?"

"You did. You said that you wouldn't be dating me _anymore _if I wasn't straight with you. I was, therefore we are dating."

Lily finally gave an exasperated sigh, though the corners of her mouth were twitching up "Fine. We're dating. Do you want a prize?"

James grinned wider. "Nope. I've already got the one I want."

pre --- /pre

Snape ducked under the board hanging from the top of the abandoned shed's doorway. He scanned the shadows, trying to avoid going in any further. He wasn't sure that the dark, weather-beaten shed would stand up a strong breeze, and he'd had enough of the world falling on his head lately.

"Mr. Potter?"

"Ben, please." The voice came from a shadowy corner.

Snape sighed and picked his way over the debris scattered across the floor. Really, the Malfoy's would have Incendio'd any structure in such disrepair on their property.

Ben Potter was sitting on a crate, hands dangling between his knees and a sealed bottle of Firewhiskey between his feet. Snape hadn't seen him since their last, tense conversation in the lab the day before. There were new, gray bags hanging under Mr. Potter's eyes this morning. Or maybe that was just the shadows playing through the cracks in the walls.

"How's your back, son?"

"Er, it's fine, sir. Mrs. Potter told me to ask you if the greenery fortifying solution was ready yet?"

Mr. Potter smiled and shook his head. "She knows damn well that it won't be for another month yet. She was telling you to check up on me."

"Oh." Did this mean he was in trouble? Ben Potter didn't sound angry.

"She'd kill me if she knew I still had this." He gestured to the bottle at his feet. "So I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention it."

"Of course."

Snape wasn't sure what to say. He was beginning to wish the shed would fall down on his head; at least it would relieve the awkwardness.

"My brothers were the ones who rescued me after I was captured. Eventually. But you can take a man out of hell; you can't take the hell out of the man, eh?"

This was something Snape could relate to. "No."

"The memories are still perfectly clear. Several years' worth; it's like looking through a glass window into the past. I can still see everything."

Snape struggled speak through the constriction in his throat. "I can't. Lucius kept me in the dungeon for three months, but I can only remember a handful of moments. Everything else is just...a blur."

Ben nodded. "Some of us were like that. Some spent years in those cells, but could barely remember any of it. Some were glad, and some hated that things had been done to them that they couldn't remember."

Snape felt some of his long-harbored fears melt a little. "They didn't go mad?"

"No. Most handled it better than I did. Some gave up on themselves and ended their own pain, one way or another. It was Evelyn that saved me." He craned his neck up at Snape. "Why don't you have a seat?"

Snape sat down on a small stack of wood (after checking for nails). It felt more appropriate to be looking up at Mr. Potter. "Did...did you ever have moments where it felt like you were going to die? You couldn't breath, couldn't move..."

"No, not personally. Of course, there's a pretty good gap of time _after_ I was rescued that I don't remember." He gestured to the bottle between his feet. "But some others who went through it did have those attacks. They never quite went away, but they accepted it. There are things that never heal, but it doesn't mean you're going mad."

"I suppose it depends on how you define madness."

Mr. Potter gave another brief smile. "So it would. But, Severus, you're not losing your mind."

"How can you be sure?"

"You spent fifteen years in a situation that would have broken most people. Your reactions aren't insane; they're normal. Normal for a person, not a slave"

"From someone who's been there."

"Yes. From someone who's been there."

Snape stared at the dark amber bottle. "Is that why you bought me?"

"No." He paused, futilely trying to smooth down his graying hair. "Maybe. It was the right thing to do. And I was very proud of James for being the one to realize that."

Snape couldn't think of anything to say to that.

Mr. Potter stood up, stretching and dusting off his robes. He picked up the still-sealed bottle and placed it in the rafters.

"Come on, lad. I'll show you how to make Evelyn's favorite plant food. It works wonders when you need her to forgive you for something."

pre --- /pre

Sunday night, Madam Pomfrey was back with an armful of analgesics and healing creams. When exactly forty eight hours had passed since Lucius had finished with him, Snape permitted her to smear them all on. Most of them weren't necessary -- he really wasn't in that much pain by that point -- but it seemed to make her feel better.

Mrs. Potter gave him the choice of going back to the school with Madam Pomfrey that night or staying with them and getting up early.

It was an easy choice. Snape thought that he could learn to like living with the Potters, but the quiet peace he found in their home threw him off balance. He wanted to get back to familiar grounds.

So he tumbled through the Floo after Madam Pomfrey, glad that dinner had been several hours before. He really could not wait to get his apparition license.

He climbed the stairs to the boy's dorm slowly. Even though he had asked to come back, he wasn't looking forward to another awkward, tense night as he sat around listening to the four friends be...friends. Loudly.

So he was relieved as well as shocked when he opened the door to find the room empty. He scanned the room, both visually and magically, to make sure that nobody was lying itwait for him. It wasn't until he leaned out of the tower window and saw the bright, full moon lighting up the sky that he realized where at least Lupin must be. Perhaps they had found some way to wreak mayhem with their canid friend.

In any case, it looked like he would have the room to himself tonight. That was a pleasant surprise. Although he hoped Potter knew what he was doing; he didn't know what would happen to him if his current master got himself eaten by a werewolf. And he didn't fancy being owned by a newly minted werewolf either.

He sat on the bed. He really should get started on his schoolwork. He hadn't gotany of it done while he was at the Potters. He'd been torn between taking advantage of Mr. Potter's library and laboratory and catching up on his work, when Mr. Potter had suggested that it might look slightly suspicious if he finished his homework while he was supposed to be writhing in agony.

Not that he hadn't managed it before.

He tried to remember where his books were. But there was very little of last week that he could recall, and the location of his study materials certainly wasn'tone of them. However, since being given a bed of his own, he had discovered the effects of what most adolescent wizards would assume was dark, magical pull that caused items of sufficient size and importance to be sucked into and eventually consumed bythe space beneath the bed. Snape, having experience with dark magic, rather suspected doxies.

Rather than get off the bed to look underneath, he leaned his head over the side, keeping one hand on the floor to brace himself. He used the other to probe the depths beneath his bed. The tip of his middle finger caught on the worn leather surface of a book, so he slid his body down, until he was half on the bed and half upside down hanging off of it. He caught the book in his hand and dragged it out. He started to push himself back upright, but when he lifted his head up his eyes caught on a shallow stone bowl hidden beneath Potter's bed. The sides were decorated with strange, faintly glowing symbols.

Completely forgetting whatever book it was he'd rescued from oblivion, he slid his lower half onto the floor and dragged the bowl out from under Potter's bed. Graywisps of memories chased each other in circles.

His master's thoughts and memories. The uncharitable part of his brain suggested that they might have been more comfortably stored in an appropriately enchanted teacup. The practical part of his brain wondered why Potter would feel the need to use a Pensieve in the first place. It couldn't be that he felt the need to think and reflect on past events; he didn't know Potter well, but there was no way he was that introspective.

Then he must have shared these memories with his friends. They must be fairly recent, and the only thing of note that had happened in the recent past was Snape. And the only thing that the quartet hadn't seen with their own eyes was his sale, and his recent punishment.

Was that what Potter was doing? Sharing his pain and humiliation with his friends for a laugh? A week ago he would have been certain that was the case, but the last few days had...blurred his view of Potter.

He wasn't sure, but he needed to know. He settled into a comfortable position in front of the bowl, and briefly considered the possibility that the memories had nothing to do with him. Perhaps they were of Lily, perhaps the boys were sharing memories of their sexual encounters in some sort of pornographic adolescent bonding experience.

In that case, he was in for a very unpleasant few minutes (he didn't expect that the cumulative length of their sexual encounters would last much longer than that). With that on his mind, he dipped his wand into the swirling memories, and fell into his own past.

He was dragged back out by the back of his robes, gagging and retching. The images of his own flesh stripped away in wide, gleaming red lines, the twitching muscle underneath and his own humiliating moans burned on his tongue.

He curled, clawing at his face as if he could rip the images out of his brain. He remembered very little of that day, other than the soul-crushing pain and terror. But to _see_ what had been done to his body, how it had been mutilated, was a whole new horror.

"Snape," an angry voice cut through the fog. "Snape, fucking calm down!"

Snape opened his eyes to see Potter staring down at him. It was time, then. Potter had been sharing Snape's semi-private agony with his friends for their amusement. All of it was an elaborate game.

He wasn't prepared for the hatred and violence that rose up from his belly to his throat. Without thinking, he reached up with one hand to clutch Potter's robe, and swung the other fist up at his master's jaw as hard as he could.

His knuckles collided with what felt like a stone wall. He felt a bone in his hand pop, but in his anger he barely registered the pain. He did register the look of surprise on Potter's face as he stared at the fist frozen in midair. He dropped his hand, and felt the wall the geas had thrown up dissolve.

Potter slowly let him go and got to his feet. Snape knew that if he stood up he would probably just be knocked down again, but he ignored the logic voice and forced himself upright. He'd committed the worst sin he could, so there was no reason to hold back now. "You are a despicable liar," he hissed.

Potter looked stunned, then turned red. "What the hell are you talking about? And you might want to explain what you're doing poking around in my memories."

"They aren't _your_ memories. They're of me, what _I_ look like beaten and -- I hope all your friends got a bloody fine chuckle out of it."

"You've got nerve, pointing fingers at me when you're the one who poked his wand into my Pensieve -- and there's no way you could have known what was in there."

"As if you hadn't shown it to all your friends already. What's next, stake me out naked in the common room so everyone can understand exactly what I am? Make me perform favors in the Great Hall?"

"Oh, would you just get a grip!" Potter crossed his arms and stomped his foot. "Yes, life with Lucius was probably awful. I'm sorry. But you're here and you've met my parents and I never thought that you were all that brilliant anyway, but even you should be able to understand that _nothing is going to happen to you._"

Snape stared at him. "Just like nothing happened this weekend?"

Potter retreated slightly. "That wasn't my fault." He rallied. "Besides, it was you who stuck your fist in Malfoy's face. Not that I blame you or anything."

"You have no idea."

"Of what it's like to want to knock Malfoy down a peg or twelve?"

"Of _anything._"

"Then why don't you give me a bloody idea?"

"Why? So you can have something else to share with your friends?"

"That's why I bloody showed my friends. So that they would have an idea of what it's like to have someone you're -- someone hurt like that. So that maybe they would quit treating you like...you."

"That's --" Snape paused as the words penetrated his brain. "You're --" He paused again, trying to accept this new possibility, and the fact that it was James who had presented it to him. "Did it work?"

"More or less. Well, more less."

Snape was quiet, but he sat down on the edge of Potter's trunk. Potter mirrored him, sitting cross-legged on Snape's bed. Snape stared at the wall he had woken up against two weeks ago, terrified by the sound of his new master's feet on the carpet.

"Do you know where I was last month?"

Potter froze, a brief expression of panic crossing his face. "You're going to tell me just to prove some kind of point, aren't you?"

"I was in the Malfoys' dungeon. Ten years ago it was a cellar, but Lucius read a book about dungeons and decided he needed to have one. The house elves did wonders. There was dripping water, squealing rodents, and of course a cobblestone floor that never got warm or clean or tolerable to lie on."

Potter's face had become very still.

"The worst part isn't so much the pain. It's time. It's knowing that you are going to suffer until your body finally consumes itself. It's hoping for and dreading footsteps down the corridor, because even though he's going to torture you, there's also a chance he might feed you. It's begging to suck off the person you hate for a rotten apple, and offering to let him pull your own teeth for the privilege."

Potter's mouth had opened. His face had gone pale, and Snape felt a thrill of power. He couldn't hit Potter, but he could hurt him with words. Snape had always been better with his tongue than his fists anyway. "It's knowing that someone else owns you, owns every part of you. Even your mind. Even your memories." Snape paused, giving time for Potter to absorb. "Today's the first time you've acted like a real master."

Potter winced. He stared at his hands in silence -- a remarkable feat as far as Snape could tell. Finally, he muttered under his breath, "I'm sorry, Snape."

Snape felt his own mouth drop open. "What?"

"I'm _sorry,_ okay? I shouldn't have shown them without asking you. I won't fucking-well do it again, okay?"

He was apologizing? To a slave? Even among free boys, Snape knew that you never showed weakness, never admitted fault. Snape felt something change, like one last hole being plugged in an old dam, so that it was no longer leaking fear into his chest. He had known since this weekend that James wouldn't hurt him, but for the first time he really started to _believe _it.

"Snape? Hey, when someone apologizes, you either accept it...or not."

"In Slytherin, the offended party usually gets to pick a forfeit."

Potter rolled his eyes. "Well, this is Gryffindor."

Snape stared.

Potter stared back, then threw up his hands. "Fine, name your price. You really want me to bribe you for your forgiveness?"

Snape shook his head. "You really have no idea how this slave thing works, do you?"

"Hardly. I did some reading in the library...but I didn't like the rules or conventions or...anything, much."

"So, as usual, you'll just ignore them and create your own?"

"No." James stood up and stretched his hand out into the tenuous ceasefire ground between them. "I'll just ignore them and you can create your own. I'll bet you like making up rules as much as I like breaking them."

Snape hesitated, staring at the offered hand. He'd seen the gesture done thousands of times, even had it done to him by people who didn't know his status. "What if I make a rule you don't like?"

"I'll ignore it."

"Of course you will." Snape finally stretched out his own arm and touched palms briefly with Potter. The handshake was...efficient, but Snape could appreciate the symbolism of the gesture. "Now, about that bribe..."

The End.

* * *

Author's Notes 7/7/07: 

For more information about sequels, check my website (it's listed on my profile).

I would have given up on this story long ago without my beta whitehound encouraging (and nagging) me. And what little I would have written without her would have been much more confusing and riddled with (more) spelling errors, grammar problems and Americanisms. She helped me clarify where and why I was going with this story, and the perspectives of the characters in it.

This story has also undergone a fairly serious overhaul thanks to lapillis. She served as an editor for the mistakes and problems that slipped past me and Whitehound. She clearly took considerable time and effort to improve this story and I think it paid off.

Both are excellent authors in their own right. Whitehound can be found here, on ff-net, and lapillus is on livejournal.


End file.
